There was no such thing as time then.
Just low winter sun
streaming through window panes,
casting angular shadows on the rug –
Was it greenish?
Some nondescript colour that hid dog-vomit spots.
Unlike the zebra-stripe shag by the fireplace,
this rug was rough enough
to burn wrestling elbows
but thick enough to cushion the sound of a head strike.
Pick-up sticks were easier on the rug;
The hardwood was too slippery.
We had such attention spans then,
carefully levering the reds
out from under the blues and greens,
We even slid them back into their tube
with that satisfying clatter-clink,
and tossed them into the maple toy box
when we got the call for supper
and the existence of the clock became apparent again.