from INSIGHT OUT by Ellen Azorin

LATE

A strange force takes possession of me
in the last few minutes
before I'm supposed to leave
to get someplace on time.
All of a sudden,
I remember a phone call
I've been meaning to make all day.
Or I notice some dishes in the sink
that have to be washed.
Or I feel compelled to locate
some unimportant item
I misplaced last night.
Or I see something in the hallway
that belongs in the bedroom,
and just have to put it back.
Or decide to check my e-mail
just one more time.
Each of these activities
inevitably takes longer than I think.
And of course there's always
that last trip to the bathroom.
I hate being late.
But there seems to be something
even more uncomfortable
about being early.

©Ellen Azorin

Read another poem