Saturday Morning Time Travel

People say there's no such thing as time travel. But if you sit outside in the early morning sun Versus inside in front of half-hour TV shows The quality of time experienced is chasmic. The house protects, shields, nourishes In its finite space. The World is an infinite bombardment, Like a child gleefully displaying all his clothes While fabricating new items on the spot, sweetly, angrily, but in every way for you, without fee or formality. It is the world to which we belong, Not the house, nor the show. The morning sun may not re-locate us (physically) Through our own construction of time As a properly gadgeted time traveler might, But it slows it with mystic ease and rhythms. Which is more than Oprah Winfrey could ever do Stuck inside a glowing, square box. So rejoice! Your problems are small, definite, and digitized. As this poem is written I sit In World's slow time As it beckons me forward in search Of the soul's blue and glacial bliss. A sky wrapped around a fist. A rising sun crackling The mountain mist. A time traveler awakened to Love's first kiss. This Saturday morning. Outside with tea. Just you an me. With the television's "secrets" within. And the World open and naked without.