Devika Brendon: ‘Time Poor’

Time Poor

My solution to most crises, these days,
can be summed up like a shopping list:
lemons, hot water, morning sun
and pots to plant seedlings in.
I dig with whatever utensil comes to hand:
even old spoons and forks, instead of waiting to be issued
with a curfew pass, to get to the store,
to purchase the correct tools,
as seen in the gardening shows.
We cut up old sheets and towels
to make masks, and wiping cloths.
I find—with a growing sense of wonder—
that I can live very well,
on less money, and with fewer things.

And time stretches out, and unrolls itself
like a bed I make new, every morning:
sheets spread out, straight and clean.
I can lie on each dayʼs
flat, uninterrupted plane, ensconced,
without being summoned to do anything.
Time was something I grudged and hoarded,
because so little of it was available to me:
I snatched and grabbed at it,
in a frenzy of anxiety, as it passed.
Now, I can squander it, at last.
Thereʼs so much of it, I can revel in the wasting of it.

Devika Brendon