Sixty deaths an hour

We all stop running
when the clock strikes done
and we’re chained to the
bike stands
we know
they’ve won

and the minutes move on
after the moon, the sun,
and the day of reckoning
when the clock strikes done.

In the sepia of
sometime last year or
it might have been
twenty years ago,
used to know her,
the girl in the picture
who showed me the show
last year or
twenty years ago
what does it matter now
when the jigsaw is broken?
no matter how I try
I cannot remember.

© 2017, John Smallshaw.