Stitching Time's Ankles Together

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Stitching Time’s Ankles Together

I caught Time mid-stride, all calves and calendar,

sprinting barefoot through my to-do list—

and thought, what if I hemmed him in?

So I fetched my grandmother’s thimble,

threaded it with good intentions (the color of “Monday”),

and crouched behind the hour hand like a tailor with delusions of grandeur.

Time pretended not to notice—

whistling elevator music, checking his watch

(which is just himself, very meta).

I aimed for the ankles—neat cross-stitch,

nothing aggressive, just a polite hobble

so he’d stop outrunning my ambition and sit awhile for coffee.

But Time has excellent cardio.

He laughed in leap year, flicked lint from his lapel of seconds,

and dragged my tidy seam down the boulevard of afternoon.

Now I’m here with a spool of “eventually” unraveling at my feet,

needle stuck in the cuff of yesterday,

explaining to the mirror that this was always performance art.

Truth is, Time doesn’t need tripping.

He needs dancing with—

a little less chase, a little more waltz.

Still, if you see him limping—

just slightly—

that was me.

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This ekphrastic poem's title is the eighth line from one of my earlier poems, that poem was made up of incomplete sentences, that somehow made great titles.

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©2026 Christopher Reilley 

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