Spare Time

What do you like to do in yours?
the young ones ask. You scowl and stare.
As if such time were ever there:
a bonus, not the sand that pours

the hour through the hourglass,
but extra, added at the top,
that only gets its chance to drop
once sixty proper minutes pass,

and measures out a stretch best spent
on hobbies, lest you grow so bored
you think some thought you can’t afford
or wonder where your memory went.

They smile, still waiting. Do they share
some happy clock that chimes XIII?
Smile back, say something. Don’t be mean.
They’ll learn in time no time is spare.

Robert West

If you have any comments on this poem, Robert West would be pleased to hear from you.