It's About Time
by JEAN WONG
This is the tale of a man named Jim
who lived alone in pleasure and sin.
The pleasure was the house he lived
with all the trappings only his.
His stark and simple black and whites,
his multi electronics quite
the latest in expense and taste,
his high security systems placed,
his world intact and insulated,
his life insured and triple rated.
His sin was pride and self-absorption.
His plate was full and all the portions
belonged to him, never his brother,
neighbor, family or any other.
Wives he’d had and girl friends too
like bowling pins lined up in queue,
he threw the ball and knocked them all,
scattered, left, bereft, and bruised.
Jim had a cat named Sebastian,
a beautiful Siamese exquisitely fashioned.
Jim fed Sebastian that is true,
but other than that the separate two
with one another had nothing to do,
not even a meow or a howdy-do.
They were unburdened with feeling or care,
the convenient arrangement, the exquisite pair.
One afternoon, Jim went for a walk,
and cat happened to follow him up the block.
They walked up a hill and saw a sign
that said, Magic Mountain--it’s About Time.
“What nonsense,” Jim thought as he turned around,
“someone’s been reading Thomas Mann.
This isn’t a mountain it’s just a hill.
These kids should find work and do something real.”
But as he went down his familiar way,
something felt strange and slightly fey.
There seemed less houses and few trees,
sidewalks were gone and so was the breeze.
Familiar landmarks had disappeared,
no horn nor motor could he hear,
only a slight ringing of various tones
like Sirens in Ulysses’ poem.
He simply couldn't get his bearings,
lost he was, his house un-nearing.
And darkness fell and covered the land,
not the darkness most of us understand,
no tiny gleams of electric lights
or beams from stars that make things bright.
The darkness was black, he was blind as a bat,
but still he could hear the dim pad of his cat.
For hours and hours he went every which way,
but each step took him further astray.
Finally exhausted, he collapsed in a heap,
cold and hungry he fell asleep.
His dreams were haunting, disturbing, and grim.
What in the world was happening to him?
This was a nightmare--was there no escape?
Suddenly he felt a comforting weight.
Sebastian had silently climbed on his chest.
Jim finally was able to take a deep breath.
He felt the warmth and the weight and the fur,
the steady heart beating, the occasional purr.
His panic subsided, he endured the night,
finally the morning brought back the light.
Jim made it home and from that day on,
once in a while a routine was born.
For there would be times on a cold, crisp night,
Sebastian by Jim would softly alight,
together they slept in deep embrace.
You’d think Jim joined the human race.
Did he become a more caring man?
Did he share and trouble to give others a chance?
Did he smile and laugh and tell a joke,
and sing and open his heart out to folks?
No, not at all, I’m sorry to tell
Jim died just as cranky and selfish as hell.
But please don’t feel disappointed in Jim.
His story’s the same for you and for him.
For each life that’s lived grows like a tree.
Some grow tall and just beautifully.
Some turn bent, or die prematurely.
The sum is measured not by the distance,
but what goes on in every instance.
Jim had a heart covered up good.
He kept people out as much as he could.
But something connected and something healed,
when his hand through Sebastian’s fur he could feel,
another heart beating a being like him,
and that was a breakthrough for unlikely Jim.
For once in a while, a moment or two,
the magic though short, and quite minuscule,
gave Jim a chance, though he didn’t know,
just for an inch, Jim managed to grow.
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A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR:
Jean was born in the mid-Pacific
And is a hell of a writer -to be specific
She has recently published a book
And even the cover merits a look
"Sleeping with the Gods" is the title to seek
Order ISBN 978-9-9892384-0-3
Check with her blog, or wait an Amazon week.
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