Waiting for the Words (time slippage)

Time slips idly by me,
as if it were some child
shushing, hushing and tip-toeing
to the balcony’s overlook
into the living room,
early on some Christmas morning
the small toes forgetting the intention
of the creep by the excitement
of taught, reflective wrapping paper.

And I sit, thinking simply about how
to express my feelings through paper and
ink and paper and ink and paper and
ink and paper,

I’m waiting for my mind to organize the
cluttered bullshit of itself and tell me
a truth; this, I know is a timely thing,
something not to be rushed, never to be
rushed,
“no, no, no. tsk tsk”
I say to myself
at the thought.