Mr. Always-Late-Always-The-Same-Excuse

Lyrics

The timer went off ten minutes ago.
Ten minutes is an eternity for roasted vegetables.

Sarah glances at the clock.
Seven-oh-nine on a Saturday.
The others are here, making the right noises in the living room.
Ice clinking.
The low hum of a story I've heard before.
But my ear is tuned to the oven fan, keeping the heat on low.
Keeping the dream alive.

And right on schedule, the little buzz in my pocket.
The phone lights up the apron.
"Traffic is insane! On my way!"
The same four words he's used for twenty years.
The fifteen minutes he claims back from the world, every time.

I remember his surprise party.
We all hid in the dark for an extra twenty minutes.
He was late for his own surprise.
He was late for the Monday meeting, blamed the construction sign that came down in '09.
He collects those antique pocket watches, but time is a thing that happens to other people.

And right on schedule, the little lie in my pocket.
The phone lighting up the kitchen.
"Traffic is insane! So sorry!"
The same excuse he's used for twenty years.
The fifteen minutes he steals from every room he's about to enter.

Does he picture us here?
Just… waiting?
Does he think the heat holds forever?
The vegetables are sighing on the pan.
The wine is breathing a little too deep.
It’s not anger, not anymore.
It’s just this quiet hum.
This understanding.
We are the punctuation in his very important sentence.

He arrives at seven twenty-two.
Flushed and apologetic.
"You would not believe the traffic."
And we all smile.
And I pull the tray from the oven.
And everything is just a little colder than it should have been.