My Time

When I first saw the magazine I leaned against the light;
it had my month and year of birth--now how can that be right?
The cover showed the planet Earth, so there was lots of blue;
silver letters at the top read, “It is a time for you.”

I opened up the magazine to see the list of staff;
then when I read the finer print I soon began to laugh.
Among the names were Donald Duck, also, Felix the Cat;
I saw a cute chameleon, but he was standing pat.

So I turned pages to behold some pictures of the time;
and I was edged with interest like edges of a dime.
Of course there was no Internet and postage stamps were cheap;
compared to what we hear today, there was a lot more bleep.

There was no censoring per page, nor did there need to be;
for everything about this zine reflected times of me.
I leafed through pages to reveal a life somewhat oblique;
staid chemistry and baseball star with just a touch of geek.

The images of faces gone, the lilies in the field;
relationships both good and bad, some memories revealed.
The innocence of childhood, a deep ravine Tarzan;
way back into the womb of time when consciousness began.

Astronomy and model planes, touch football in the street;
both books and balls of every size, a scholarly athlete.
The splash of quarry in the sun, ice skating in the cold;
the shrinking of a violet, then learning to be bold.

It wasn’t only photographs, but articles spoke too;
and as I read I felt as if a harmony rang true.
With all connections, great and small, upon the face of Earth,
I thought of life’s divergent ways, and realized the worth.

There in time’s bubble, I was left to dream within time’s dream,
from words of periodical, direct, and full of gleam,
as if the sun took time for me, a speck beneath the sky,
well-lighted in a magazine when time gave me the eye.

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