Watching the hands of time move on tiptoes around the face of the clock,
this old crock is still in bed counting the hairs left on his head or maybe this is one of those dreams where I’ll wake up in a sweat,
the hands turn into lollypop sticks,
time ticks on.
It’s real enough to stuff my ears with cotton wool and fight against the pull of gravity,
falling anyway into the gravy boat where Monday stews, but I’m still tired the picture cried
and inside I was too.
© 2019, John Smallshaw.