Otherwise

I know a man who doesn’t believe in time
He says it is a social construct

So he
wakes when he wants to
sleeps when he wants to
eats
breathes
labours
when he wants to

Late for work
loses his job
Late for church
leaves his wife

to brush the children’s unruly red hair
feed them their oatmeal – hot –
nag them to put on their Sunday-best-hand-me-downs
wash their faces clean of oatmeal – hardened –
rush them, breathless, into their rusted, hiccuping, barely working van
drive them to church

where she sits with her four children
alone
until
he
shows up

He likes to sleep in
he shrugs
His children pale and thin,
rubber boots stuffed with extra socks and scraps of material

Time is just a social construct,
he says,
yawning,
stretching,
smiling.