In The Afternoon

It's only once you've punched the snooze function on your alarm-clock for the fourth consecutive time, and the fragrance of now-ready eggs and bacon waft up through the door to your second floor loft, and confine around a night's accumulation of warmth inside your personal cocoon. It's only then that you've finally realized, this is the answer to "Where does the time go?". It gets slurped up by the afternoon, it slides past you on the porch where you stoop it with your bests, conversing about the days goings-on. Porches and friends are a match so perfect you would think it's synthesized, like love and marriage is, or coffee and cigarettes are. It's places like these where time sits on the sidelines, and doesn't even reach the fringes of cognizance. It's the indoors of wintery afternoons, and the fresh-air of summery afternoons that time escapes to while we are politely leaving it there undisturbed. It's in the afternoon.