Clocks

I sit on the floor

Tinkering

 

With all my broken pieces

A clock that works no more

 

I’ll take a piece of me

And give a piece of you

Which sounds cruel

But only if you don’t know what it means

 

Perhaps when we’ve finished

Collecting and spending

Hammering, adjusting, and

Ignoring

We might remember how we tell time

 

At least, that’s the hope

Which I don’t suppose is any more foolish

Than being realistic