Hurry

I need not hear tale, for
I witnessed with my own eyes.
Days of when
we would
stop.
We would
pullover
to the side of the road.
Out of respect, for
the dead, when
funeral processions would pass by.
We would
slow down, when
passing through
school crossing zones.
We would
give heed, to
ambulance song and light
in our rear view mirrors.

In this age of microwave ovens and nuclear power
water heats up quickly.
The hot clean water makes us coffee.
We buy the coffee through drive through windows.
The coffee
spills in our laps
scalding our thighs.

We lick
the tips
of our fingers.
Skipping over the alphabet
printed on pages of yellow,
we sue.

We sue
the restaurant with the drive through window;
the service is too fast.
The lids to our coffee are not fastened tight.
It’s their job, not ours,
to secure our coffee lids.

We sue
the coffee maker manufacturer, for
making a coffee maker that makes
coffee,
too hot.
We sue
the nuclear power plant, for
making water too clean,
which,
allows the water to heat,
too hot.
We sue
the car company, for
not having automated fire extinguishers
to accompany the deployment of our automated airbags
which,
protect us, when
we are in,
a hurry.

We want our coffee
and our money
fast.
And,
we don’t want to work for either one of them.
We are in,
a hurry.

Rush of life.
Instant gratification.
The Internet, promising
instant sex.
The Lottery’s, (aimed & designed for the poor) promising
instant wealth.
Instant pudding.
Instant potato’s.
Instant Patriot Acts.
Digital Photographs.
No waiting.

Soft chew candies.
No one takes time to savor…

The process. The discovery. The learning. The Harvest.

One man.
One Field.
40 acres.
Removing rocks, trees, and limbs.
One mule.
Tilling.
Sowing.
Tending.
Growing.
Waiting.
Praying.
Sunshine.
Rain.
Waiting.
Spring, Summer, Autumn.
Reaping.
Sharing.
Storing.
Harvest.
Experience.

Where do the green things grow?
Does anyone remember?

The green we see grow, has
no foliage,
no vines.
no Flowers.
It has,
root, and spreads,
like a wild vagrant weed,
over taking all that is good.
This green that grows, has
faces.
Faces of men, who
were tobacco farmers.
Who signed their names with quills dipped in ink wells.

Ink,
still takes time, to
dry.

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