The Hourglass

The hourglass that bulges at the middle
      I seem to see it everywhere I go
                                      the last bite of an apple will reveal it
                                    two cones, a sphere, a lozenge or a bow
                                      And cutting figures into railroad board
                                      to make Glengarry caps for kids to wear
                                    next week at Scottish Fest, my scissors snip
                                  and in the scraps that fall, the shape is there.
                                    At dinner with a group I don’t know well
                                      I clench my paper napkin and I twist
                                          it anxiously beneath the tabletop
                                      and after, find the hourglass in my fist.
                                What’s in the middle part that makes it bulge,
                                        my refuse swelling with significance?
                            Which I would loose, my hoarding thoughts intake:
                                  a pregnant glass whose water will not break.

2015