Killing Time
March 6 2014


The lights turned
as if waving me through,
clicking from red to green
in perfect sync,

ushering me seamlessly on.

Traffic parting like the Red Sea

just as I approach,
and almost as improbable.
Rarely, in life, do you hit the sweet spot
and the gods defer,

the universe unfolds

like clockwork.

The check-out girl
killing time
waves you to the front of the line,
the cop
lets you off with a warning.

That rarefied morning
I felt like the commander-in-chief

speeding self-importantly

in my armour-plated Cadillac, smoked-glass black,

police whistling down
cross-town traffic,
saluting
as I flew past.

And me, the most powerful man in the world
busily ignoring them
in my tightly packed day.

I was early, of course
and had time to kill

as the waiting room filled.

So I sat, leafing idly

through fashion, and gossip

celebrity reports.

All that time saved
for what, exactly?
As if time
could be put in the bank,
a nest egg
to retire on,

some death-bed bequest.

Saved, like cash
you count on getting back

when you’re nearing the end.

I overheard the expression "killing time", and immediately thought what an ungrateful way to view the privilege of being alive: even at its worst, better than the alternative! And, in my usual morbid way, also thought how different those minutes or hours will seem at the end of life, when you'll fight for every last moment. (Or I hope will fight, since I realize that for a lot of us, the end may very well come as a welcome mercy, exhausted by a long struggle with illness, the accumulating loss of pleasure and purpose.)

I also reflected amusingly on how we rush around to "save" time: as if we'd somehow get it back in the end, "saved" in some temporal bank account. (Sorry, another morbid reflection on death!)

Both of these notions -- of killing time and saving time -- get at the more fundamental idea of being present: of living in the actual moment instead of just putting in time while you either reflect on the past or fret about the future. Which is a little like the busy self-importance of the poem's commander-in-chief, who can't find even a moment to acknowledge his helpers and admirers.

I had a lot of trouble getting "killing time" to work. Because when you actually listen to that common expression, it starts sounding a lot more violent than off-hand!

The last couple of days, I've had a few incidents when time was on my side. Twice, just as I aproached, supermarket cashiers (is "check-out girl" sexist?!) were idly waiting, not serving anyone; and then nailing every light on Red River Rd, heading into town. (Which hardly equalizes things, since more often than not they seem so diabolically coordinated I hit every single red. Not to mention the universal experience of picking the one supermarket line (or bank line or vehicle registration line ...) that inexplicably stops moving!)

The "Red Sea" thing is pretty clichéd; but for some reason I found the image compelling and just couldn't let it go. Hope it works ...

I also threw in some gratuitous detail because I loved the word-play. What a hoot to imagine yourself standing in front of an audience and reciting "armour-plated Cadillac, smoked-glass black"! I think there's more risk in the final stanza, when the poem takes on a more serious tone, but "nest egg"/"death-bed" was too perfect to resist.

"...fashion, and gossip/ celebrity reports ..." was originally something like "waiting room magazines" or "well-thumbed periodicals", but I couldn't resist throwing in a few more lines and taking a shot at popular culture, while at the same time emphasizing the empty victory of "time saved": stuff in which I have less than zero interest, and would never in a million years seek out to read. It's a bit of a tangent, risks making the poem too wordy, and is probably on the heavy-handed and self-indulgent side; but, like "Red Sea" and pretentious limousines, I insist on having my fun!