Clocks are a great human tragedy. A faithful sun, enough for the rest of creation, is not enough for us. Imagine a play in which all of the actors carry clocks — through love scenes and in displays of assumed moral courage, both hands occupied, fingers absentmindedly caressing the worn shells of those insistent, demanding objects as if they were pampered pets — while the audience nervously taps its feet and worries about the time. Meanwhile, outside, in the street, the soldiers of time march on, in place, going nowhere, tromp, tromp, tromp, as bells toll the hour. Extra! Extra! Lunatic philosopher says time does not exist! Sentenced to death! Extra! Extra! Yes. Imagine a play.
Morning call — the old red hen announces the arrival of an egg.
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces