Time Goes The Same Place As The Wind Poem by Brian Rihlmann

Some weekends
you stay in the same clothes,
don't shower, brush your teeth,
or comb your hair,
eat potato chips and ice cream,
and sleep in a dark room
while the sun shines outside
on smiling faces
swarming the parking lots
of shopping malls.

Sometimes, that's what it takes.
Then you can handle Monday,
the job, the traffic,
and the people again.

They may say
you squandered that
precious time, and
you may agree,
and kick yourself, asking,
"Where did it go? "

It's not like transforming
a week's worth
of grinding hours
at work into a handbag
or a gold watch
to impress friends,
or strangers on the street,
or the Internet.

Those, you see,
are hours well spent.