In the early 70’s I was working at a men’s wear store in Barrie, Ontario. Some days there was hardly any sales traffic, which made the time pass very slowly. To relieve the boredom, I wrote the following little ditty.
By dipping their fingers in wine.
So that my own thoughts are not mine.
The soul’s woe
For all of the feelings aren’t fine.
As long as we’re able to dine?
Over time, I realized that my poetry had an organizing theme: time. So when I went to bring all the poems into one volume, I gave the manuscript the same title as the following poem.
Minutes skip by
And days slip by without a rest.
People worry about tomorrow’s test.
No one walks
No one talks
As a fox would worry for his life.
Cheques are signed
Debts combine to increase the daily strife.
Schedules to meet constitute what’s known as a pace.
Peacocks with hats
Are all rats that run day after day in the same race.