#65 SLOWER THAN MOLASSES
#65 SLOWER THAN MOLASSES
(Americana)
Big race, fifth grade, the crowd's gone before I finish,
College café table, I start to speak -- they've moved on.
Law firm cubicle -- my "to-do" file never empties,
TV game-shows -- I'm late with answers, but rarely wrong.
Then one day in a watch and clock repair shop,
Watching him work, slowly place each piece -- he just knew.
Five years working for him, then opened my own shop,
Quiet, strong coffee, well-placed coils and screws.
I lean back and wave,
As the world speeds past us.
No time to rush, my days tick on,
Perfectly slower than molasses.
Door chimes, you walk in. Broken clock, bright green eyes.
Coffee leads to park-side tacos, kissing in my car.
Soon it's beach trip, bluegrass concert, tango lessons
Park bench after midnight -- laughing, counting stars.
Five months later, cold grey day, you curled up as I work,
Scrolling, pointing out the places you want us to stay.
You come over, kiss and hug me, I drop a coil.
"Aren't we perfect?" I nod. Pause, then look away.
I watch you running at the world's pace,
And I'm scared you'll rush right past us.
I unravel when I try to keep up,
I need my days slower than molasses.
Park bench, sunset, I say "We're not right."
You tilt your head, "But we never fight!"
Then say "I'll do things your way, not mine."
I nod, "I don't... Please give me some time."
Park bench, lunchtime, I say I'm sorry, I'm a jerk,
"We'll just meet in the middle. That works"
You stand up, smile tightly, tell me I'm wrong.
"Answer's not right when it takes that long."
Three days seemed like a mistake, but it's worse than that,
As more and more time passes.
My days grind down t'wards still and silent,
Unsteady and slower than molasses.
At your door, text you "Please, give us a chance"
My phone dings, text says "Too soon. Go away."
A month later, park bench, it's trying to rain.
I call, you pick up. Silence, then you say "Too late."
Hours on the couch at night watching gameshows,
Dirty kitchen, reading a book about sorrow.
Sigh, put down the book, pick up a sponge.
The clocks need winding, I'll do them tomorrow.
The clock chimes: another hour without you,
Sharp sting as time drags past us.
Bright lonely mornings, long dark nights,
All painfully slower than molasses.