The Missing Minutes
I first felt the world shudder
walking through the doors
that exited to the playground
at my elementary school.
Had I been a believer, I would have
seen the face of God in that sudden,
quivering brightness that slipped
through my eyes and churned the blood
beneath my face. But it was only light.
Awakening on the asphalt, I saw the green
spring day returning as my blood slowed
its hurried pace, returned to my veins,
and swam calmly away from my eyes.
The pulsing in my ears slowed, faded,
and the sounds of the playground clicked
into place--
the tense pang of the kickball
flying towards the only tree
protruding from the asphalt,
the thuds of children launching
from the high flying swings
into the sun baked sand,
the yelling on the distant soccer
field rising over the net-less
goals as the teams disputed a call,
the whistles of monitors catching
adventurous youth exploring, too soon,
their bodies near the chain fence.
There I was alone to contemplate
my mystery
upon the asphalt in the shade.
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