Monday, March 24, 2014

Turning The Clocks Ahead

Every spring I like to tease myself
from the safety of my pillow
my feet still abuzz with the day,
me, eyeing my alarm, my jailer.

What if I didn't turn the clocks ahead?
What’s the worst that could happen?
Does anything important depend on
my being aligned with a flat-faced thing

which couldn’t care less about me?
It’s true my employer would frown
on my tardiness and administrative
appointments would be hard to keep.

I may no longer be invited to family
functions with defined shelf lives
and paper mâché agendas to manage.
These would hardly be bad things,

I think to myself as I extend my hand,
click the hour button once, reluctantly
picking up the line at my feet with
both limp hands, awaiting the pistol,

of another day, though I’d rather just greet
the other runners here with a cold drink
and a soft chair for their tired bones

when they lap me again six months from now. 


All I need is a little time
an hour for this
two for that
at least half a day
for the dusty pile
on the desk
on the floor
behind the door
leading to other
piles I can't recall
couldn't say.

Just one more pile
then I'll rest
then I'll sleep
knees locked straight
still bearing weight
dreaming dreams
of piles neck deep
of piles no peep
or thought
will seep.