For Lost Things

As a child the world moves
slowly, and time is a concept
left for those whose days run
on schedules. That will never
be my life, I once believed –
and then
I grew up to be the person
I used to wait for
at the kitchen window.

There are days I sit in
my office, tired before my work
has even begun. If I squint
my eyes and gaze slowly past the
boundaries of periphery, I can
see the phantoms of my youth in
the corner. Some days they beckon
to me, while others they just watch.
At times, I get confused, not knowing
which of us is the shadow and who
will disappear when the sun comes up.