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.
