The Hours are Ours [Revised]

The hours are hours, my dear, and nothing more.

While they tick away in their monotonous drone,

I can think of nothing else than the tired, old

Hallways of lemon-scented retirement homes.

Their parade plods in a circle, repeating their tones

On walls, radios, and Rolex shackles, invited to our homes.

But let’s break from this desolation,

Let’s be free of the reign of regulation and the tyranny of time.

Let’s walk down the moonlit streets, humming that song

That you can’t get out of your head, tapping our mingled fingers,

Symphony.

I’ll count the stars with you, even if we only get to 192,

And treat you to all the frozen yogurt you can eat.

While we’re in the mood, let’s go down by the corner

And pay the man a dollar as he closes his eyes, singing the blues.

We’ll watch the sun rise a thousand times, and a thousand times more

Watch it set. Not to number the days, but to see the ways

That the pinks and blues collect in hues that weave across the sky,

Tapestry.

I’ll make you exotic sandwiches and pretend they’re all the rage in France.

We’ll venture out to who knows where, and be angry when we find our way back.

The decrepit remains of a measured life fall by the wayside

As we stride on to our lives lived in full, beautifully unbounded.

The hours are ours, my dear, and nothing more.