Killing Time at Borders

I.
Just the thought
Makes me slink in shame;
Thinking of what Thoreau said
In his condescending way:
“As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.”
This while he sat nights
Under the lamplight
Scribbling in his ledger,
Accounting for each penny
Spent remodeling his shack.
He thought it was idyllic.
I might prefer the Irish wit:
“When God made time, he made plenty of it.”
I think my ancestors would have
Been charmed by Thoreau;
Spending their meager shillings
Buying one another pints.

II.
The sharp young man wore a tie
To make a good impression.
He answers the man's questions,
Taking pains to mention
All his worthy points
As if by accident.
He has an easy manner for his age;
With only a trace of stagecraft.
He is enthusiastic
And full of youthful energy
While still sounding almost professional;
And almost experienced.
He will almost get the job, I realize
As the interviewer feigns interest.
Maybe tomorrow
He will wear his tie again.

III.
How are these ladies connected?
One in her 40’s and the other barely 20.
Aunt and niece perhaps?
Or co-workers maybe,
Which often makes strange bedfellows—
Or their female equivalents.
The younger talks about herself.
The older gives advice.
They speak in a synchronous flow
Reciting a litany of crises and dilemmas—
Matched by solemn admonitions
With no room for debate.
They pretend to listen politely
While each awaits her turn.
It is a practiced art; a quiet opera
Over coffee and rolls in the afternoon.


IV.
So there we sit.
The five of us together,
Yet comfortably separate;
Me looking rapt
At my book on Templar Knights
Picked frivolously from the shelf:
Warrior monks protecting pilgrims
As they journeyed to Jerusalem.
But the Knights don't interest me
As much as the conversations,
So I alternate my attention,
Giving each equal time
While picking at my muffin;
No better or worse than Thoreau,
Who lived so well he felt
The need to write a book about it.