Early

My intention was to spring out of bed early to start working those stacks down.

And what really happened? I slept in. So there I was, late again ... which, naturally, brought to mind my poem, "Early."

I hate to be late. Oh, I sometimes am ... it just happens ... but I always try not to be.

I used to think I could start late and arrive on time ... not by speeding, mind you. Oh, no. Never!

I thought I would get lucky ... traffic would be thin ... all the traffic lights would be working in my favor, etc. ... but, mainly, that I could observe (obey) the speed limits, and, with steady, serious driving, make up for a late start.

Hah!

So what did I do in the instance which brought the poem into original being? I started early, fully expecting to lose a lot of time along the way. And, of course, I arrived early.

But that wasn't all bad. I had noticed things along the way ... the traffic lights ... the splashing water ... a school bus, turning ... and then those golden leaves scattered on the parking lot.

I sat in my car and wrote a poem ... at least the beginnings of a poem. With some polishing and tweaking, it turned into a poem:

EARLY

Because it was raining and I thought
traffic would be doing an Olympic crawl
through boiling rivers along the curbs,

I left early, splashed wildly through
pools of surging waters toward green lights
that nodded and winked at my recklessness,

and here I sit, forty-five minutes before
writers group. I watch a school bus making
a slow, deliberate turn, its rain-coated riders

tilting and chattering like a cage full of birds,
flick off my lights, wipers, defroster, and sit,
listening as the rain subsides to a sprinkle.

Then I see the yellow autumn leaves lying
like wet kisses all across the parking lot.

© 2004

(originally published in ByLine)
Today's word: kisses