Free Range Poetry
3Nov/19

That Clock is Not My Friend

They never say good morning. They rarely say good night.
They never ask how are you, or, is everything all right?
They don't press about your business as you press on with your day
Clocks just grind on tick tick ticking, with nothing much to say.

Today's a good example, as we set the hours back
The clock could say, good morning, as I wake up at the crack
of dawn, and let me know I'm due a re-do for an hour of my choice,
to re-live a really nice part of the day, just raise my voice

and it is done, from 2pm to 1, in just a flash.
What could I do, again? To read a book? Just taking out the trash?
It could give me such advice, could help me find a pleasant
way to spend an extra moment here or there, to bring the past to present

once again. But it does not. Unfeeling, quiet, it switches while I sleep.
It spends the better part of spring and fall without a peep,
without my saying so, just tick and now it's 12 again or so,
and I wake, confused, convinced I've overslept, and then but no.

The clock is not my friend.

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