When the doorbell rang I never presumed that it was him.
A fortune lives behind those eyes, along that bending neck
But I will never know, won’t ever want to know
Because it would take time
Young time, not old time.
Old time rings a neighbor’s doorbell with a surprise
Old time digs deep, undistracted, on its knees, for hours of sun
Old time isn’t scared of the moon — there’s been too many
Old time will always ask the same questions and tell the same stories.
Because we want it like that
Young time can’t have the same thing.
When did I decide that truth and sense expire and are replaced by wisdom?
Did he ever decide that they did, he will?
Does the more you live the simpler it gets the softer you speak the color of death changes?
Do colors change in old time?
I want my colors to keep spinning until I stop the wheel and pick my order.
Then I can finally live.
I can afford to put off my life.
When he stopped the wheel, how many colors did he have to choose from?
Did he want more?
Did he just miss out?
No, old time doesn’t miss out, for that would be a waste
A waste of what has been earned
The peace of concluding what the world means for me, and what I mean for the world.
Young time will turn into old time.
The wheel will stop, whether I stop it or not.
Old time will forgive young time
Because it won’t want to go back, and it won’t want anyone to confuse it for young time.
After all, a man can only wear one watch.
I hope I’ll know it’s him at the door next time, and I’ll have something in my hands for him.
- for Bob