Before I was married, someone told me
the thief was children. The news today
told me it was definitely my smartphone.
People have had children and distractions forever.
We manage to write poems on phones.
There are 1440 minutes in a day.
The nurse tells me my heart beats
80 times per minute – 115,200 a day.
So many moments, exacting products of distance
multiplied by the charge of absent love.
At fourteen, I thought less about the future
and, unaware of Buddhism, lived in the moment.
Even a day was usually unplanned, spontaneous,
open to what the universe had planned for me.
If life is like a sonnet, the turn occurred when
the future became my focus and the present
rushed by out of control, and the past
became nostalgia, a read book fondly remembered.
At fourteen, I believed, without proof, in eternity.
The days unfolded unbidden and I was content
in thinking at some point I would be able to see
That fourteen-year-old’s future is my present,
slipping away from what I wanted it to be,
and even partially my past, now already spent.