A Good Time (old unpublished poem)

You forgot about today only yesterday,
yet whisper at the door of the coming hour.
Is it because my shadow sleeps in the grass under the tree at noon?
We are stepping past one another as we learn timing.
You’re the seconds: always racing by, looking in doors,
jumping over flowerbeds.
I’m the minutes: lingering in the fragrance and
residue of your just-having-been-here.

What else can I say?
Our tree bears no flowers, no fruit.
We can never agree on a good time for anything.