The word of the day for November 22, 2012: LATE.
I was born critically premature. I almost died. I like to joke that I’ve never been early since.
Being late is an art. You have to grasp the exact second to be late. It’s not a matter about being fashionably late or embarrassingly late—it is a matter of life and death. Being late for life, being late for death.
Emily paints a Dali-esque picture:
She’s late. So very late. Her clock is slow, the arrows falling off and folding backwards. She’s late. So very late. Everything is wrong.
The worst part about being chronically late is the stress that comes along with it—formulating excuses, devising a defense—that rarely are necessary in the end.
It doesn’t matter how late you are. Just that you ARE late. So stop being late, be early. Save the stress.
Lateness can truly be a matter of life and death—cosmic or otherwise:
The day was late, and the sky was dark. The moon was shining and the stars were lit up like an ambulance flying down the street. Who knows where it was going, but I hoped it would get there in time to save whoever was in need…
One can be late for love:
it’s too late for you to come on your white horse in the silver armor to sweep me off my feet and carry me off into the sunset
it’s too late for you to take back everything you said
it’s too late to help me, now
it’s too late
not soon enough
Or late for dinner. Or a goodbye:
Restaurant was empty. I lost my chance. I never said goodbye.
We can linger late into a season:
It’s the late season of fall and with it comes colors. Colors of trust; mistrust, warmth, comfort…
Or a night:
The moon is like a cabaret singer, oh so pretty in her sparkly black dress
She sings a song of crickets, wind and birdies with such finesse
It is late, it is the night.
late at night when the birds are asleep in their nest, i’m thinking of you.
late at night when the stars are missing the sun, i’m wondering about you.
late at night when children’s eyes are shut, i’m missing you.
Or transcend it:
Look how late it is
With our sun high in the sky
Small circles beneath our feet.
We laugh at the night
For thinking that it could darken
The light that we share.
And, whatever you do, do not be late for the lollygrove, which definitely sounds like something one ought not be late to:
late to the lollygrove on the wind trap of my man sister’s baby boy who was born into a worm who weaves clouds. when the bigot bragged on the basty banter, we lavished in the larking broom for the time to tomb on the right ole way for our jolly good days when the latrine laughed for my merry red lips.
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