time will strangle us with his
bloody lovely eyes,
we watch the clock slyly
shirking up there on the wall,
its back turned away from it all.
The second hand’s slow seduction –
don’t worry about it –
we rail against it, always
flirting with its constraints,
cramming, piling, squeezing
rushing, speed walking, bulldozing
until there are no longer any
OAPs* left to see in the new year.
We are bedded to the ground,
wed to our inky schedules,
while fed on speed dials and digital
time flushing neon and blinking
cheekily, constantly messing
with our long lashed responses.
*OAPs In the UK, are old age pensioners.