Tick-tuck, tick-tuck she tiptoe walked
towards my door
and knock knocked
with no cough, or impediment of any doubt
in her voice when she asked:
"Can't you see your time is running out?"
And then
tick-tuck, tick-tuck, she tiptoe-walked
away squeaking on the floor
knock knocking on the wooden door
in the way out
rushing like her rushing would never be understood
rhythmically like the hands of motherhood
that only
the cradle of time would
for good
unrelentingly rock,
like a rounded clock
sheltered on my shelf,
like a skelf
in its Lilliputian racecourse
running after an invisible elf,
running like a kitten
chasing herself
for evermore
as if it would never explore
in the compass of clock hands
and cuckoos -of the cuckoo-clock- orbital chore
and the eruption of my laughter:
that she has already owned
what she is
chasing after.
