You can’t glue more hours to the back end of the day,
it went too fast and I couldn’t last the pace, the face of the clock that faced me said eleven forty-three, but I never believed a word of it until I climbed up the case to see that it was indeed correct and it showed eleven forty-three.
Some things tire me, others wire me to the coil.
soon it’ll be done, the sun already on the way to start me on another day and I, poor soul, have little say except to say that every day I get a little older,
careworn, well worn and almost outgrown this skin,
but there’s more than this, there always is and always will be,
even if the clock chimes in and says it’s eleven forty-three
© 2020, John Smallshaw.