What do You Mean?

One day I was stopped by a man. He 
Had the face of a Mexican bandit; 
Brown as tequila and as round as a 
Clock. Or maybe he was an Andean 

Herder of llamas who lamented the 
Heights. With the throaty voice of someone 
Who had eaten the worm and English 
So broken that no kings, horses, nor men 

Could mend it, he asked with a slight smile: 
"Please, what is time?" 
From soaring heights my genius came to ground 
To sweep up his query and write my answer 

In the sky. I replied: "Time, you see, is the 
Celestial movements of the firmament. The 
Shifting of the smoldering stars; the ebb 
And the flow of the sandy shores; the surge 

And receding of your Mind. Time is the 
Limitless limit. It is the pendulum 
Of your coyest lover's undulating heart. 
It is more but we haven’t time to say.” 

On the same day I met another man. 
He had a Socratic brow as heavy as 
The dome above that lent it the weight. 
His face and brow were etched with lines, engraved 

By his hours and days like a complex map 
To guide me to where he stood at the moment. 
With grave import he asked me the question: 
"What is time?" 

With just the smallest of thought, I replied: 
"Dear Sir, you obviously want to know 
The hour of the day. I can help you here. 
If you want to see one raise a wrist, 

You must learn the way it is asked. You must 
Rather ask 'What time is it?' It is just to 
Our form of living that you must abide; 
Just a tweak of the language." I said this 

With affection and care. I then walked on 
Admiring my two hats. The upturned 
Corners of my smile must have looked like 
The minute hand at ten and the hour on two.