My Time

My time is when the world hushes,
when the moon parades herself
over the roofs that keep quiet
for their inhabitants.
When the street occasionally grumbles
along with the sick cough of an old engine.

My time is when the neighborhood dogs bark
caution in the shadows, at some quivering of leaves
no breeze has touched on a windless night,
at the stretch of a street as empty as my pocket.

My time sneaks like a cockroach on the floor,
studying the corners,  looking for holes
in the wall to crawl in,
or cracks in the window to scamper out.

My time is a cooler temperature, sweats rarely pearl
on my brown skin.

My time. It has served me  - graying my hair,
making my skin more paper thin.  
I've married it for 10 years,
aware of the repercussions, the sleeplessness,
the back and forth steps in the living room and kitchen.

It's a servile partner, supportive of my habit
of twiddling a thought, committing it on the page
into lines and noisy lines  that don't mean much.