Bare Essence of Time
The clock ticks.
It is a fastidious
amplifier of mechanization.
The watch is wound willingly
as it shows the futile
passage of life
to wary souls who are
passing and waiting.
Waiting for
a slow death.
A sense grows between
a broken silence of each tick
Without a glitch,
it never stops.
.
I look up at the wall.
There are little yellow stains
that must carry the rust in the water
from a metal roof
that should never be.
I follow a crack to the wall,
and run my finger to the sill.
It is wet and the glass is cold.
I see and wish I were there among
the birds
which are careless and without servitude.
They stir the wind with their wings
as they swirl in a choreography without a plan.
I take off my watch
and I can hear precision.
I tuck it away so far
in the drawer
to muffle its sound
and hide its reminder.
I take off my shoes
to walk barefoot in the
wet grass before I sleep.
.
