Is it so wrong to stare
at a weathered wooden fence
covered lightly in ivy,
to watch its quivering tracery on the ground,
at the expense of being late?
Is it so wrong to sometimes wish
you could move through time
like an aristocrat in a Russian novel,
to feel like you have all the time
in the world to rise after noon,
take tea, visit the countryside,
and dine close to midnight?