Snow Leopard

My laptop tells me I have seven minutes left on my battery.
It's nice to know how much time I have left, but it makes me worry that I won't get the job done.
Or that I'll finish this poem before it's good and ready.

Half-baked.

After all, we had sworn that we would forget all the Spanish that we had ever learned--
That time when we snuck back across the border, from Mexico.
Pounding the pavement. Sun scorching the crown of our heads.

I have only five minutes left, which is good to know.

Then there was that other time, when we came back from Canadia,
And those portly security police gave us the business
Threatening us with a $20,000 fine.

Four.

Do you think it will be that way on the other side?
When we cross the border again,
The final time?

Three.

Even when you are expecting it, it goes quicker than you hope.

Two.

And so much is left undone. Unsaid.

One.

It really won't make much sense.

In the end.