If I were the long hand

If I were the long hand

Of my grandfather’s clock

I would point down

To thirty minutes

Past the hour

Not too late to back up

Or jump forward.

I would think on death

Which would not be easy.

Dyng is a pain,

But death is too much

To comprehend

Even as time stands still

For the moment

Before the toc,

When everything

And anything is possible.

There is a finality

About reaching the hour mark

That last slow tic

The inevitability of toc

The completion

Of a cycle.

Clock watching is an art form

For the stupidly bored

Waiting to die

Turning slowly,

A stuck pig

Dripping juice

Feeding the flame.

Roasting in hell

Is not worth the time of day

I would rather buy a wristwatch

Than wait for the chime

Of a big Ben

To damage my brain.

When original thought

Is at a premium

I would gather mine,

Pull them all together

And release them slowly

Over the course of an hour.

An easing of pressure

On the way down

Makes the journey

To the top, less taxing.

When the final five minutes

Lasts forever

I would think on

The long unwinding

Of complex mechanisms.

A treatise;

“There has to be something

Better than time serving

Nobody,

But itself.”