Something for the June

Ghazal for Wasted Time

Every day the bus stops near my house
at seven-seventeen, but it’s always late.

I see all the junk my grandmother will die with
And her friends struggling to swallow, gurgling.

You worry about our love changing with time?
Time is only change measured in space, so let’s go slow.

At least these painful moments are not hours, and you
can have my salty tears for free.

Give a monkey a rock, a chisel and time, eventually it’ll sculpt like Rodin.
Right now, it’s shaping your heart and mine.
- E.G.

Poem courtesy of E.G.