Watching the Clock

April 19 2016

Time moves imperceptibly.

Until that fateful second

it lurches ahead

as if a ratchet slipped,

and you realize

the future is now.

I’ve sat watching the clock

on the classroom wall

in the sweetness of spring.

When the world is luminous green,

the air inside

close, and over-heated.

Hands turning, turning

turning in place,

circling back

starting over again;

slow, steady

indifferent.

The teacher’s distant drone

my own silent pleading.

They say the purpose of time

is so it doesn’t all happen at once.

But in a way, it does.

Because our younger versions

still accompany us,

bearing the burden

of lives lived

of left undone.

The wonky knee, permanent scars,

the bad choices

disappointments

broken hearts.

Sand falls, numerals flash,

hands travel

as they always have.

Everything as it has been

until you feel suddenly old;

time, like a tightening ratchet

in the only direction it goes.