Wasting Time Poem by Nancy Terrell

Is time really something one can waste?
Sitting for hours watching the sea
gazing at the ocean's waves,
listening to nothing

Does guilt waste time?
Long eternities that could be better spent
in some sort of production; or mass production
creating a product where a memory could be.

Does the Inca contemplating his corn,
lunching on poppy and tortillas,
spending hours of induced bliss
feel frustration at any level?

Could the hippie, having left conformity
prefer to spend time listening to riffs
or hours in conversation with peers,
feel the need to accomplish?

The lonely fisherman
hours spent in anticipation
only to throw back into the water
the fish bringing such pleasure?

The golfer really believes
that there is some type of importance
in hitting a little white ball for eighteen holes
only to see it disappear.

Lucky me - bread on my table
provided by circumstances.
Time is my own. I spend hours at a computer
and with friends or in dreams.

Observing my reaction,
when enjoying myself to the fullest -
for in doing what others claim is productive,
I break out in hives.