Poetry: Lost Minutes

There is a place off 11th Street
Downtown a little cul-de-sac without
A proper name and without a proper name well
It's not really there unless you
Take the time to look for it and time
Curls up there all those minutes where
We are paused awaiting other minutes
Waiting for the bus, waiting for the
Light to turn green, waiting for the
Waitress to bring us our pancakes, waiting
For the bored barrista to wrestle the steamer
Into submission, waiting for the dentist to find us, waiting
For the cop to turn off behind us, waiting
Well all those minutes waiting
They curl up there, in that cul-de-sac
off 11th street, downtown minutes
I swing by every now and then, gather
Them up, slip them into my pocket, program
Them into my Blackberry, stash
A few in the glove box of the old
Cadillac, hide some under the sofa cushions, they
Come in handy, all those lost minutes, though
I confess I mostly spend them to slow
The tamaleros down, so I can skip
Cooking and cleaning and instead, sit
On the porch with my fresh tamales and Jarrito's manadarin orange, those
Lost minutes seem to enjoy that, almost
As much as I do