p.day

day,

you are frustrating and your passing tells me only of my faults.

day after day, i will tell you the same thing-

stay longer, please, i want to spend more time with you-

and you choose to run a bit faster

every time i pitifully plead for your presence.

you are callous, day.

your servant the Clock

moves her hands tirelessly, to my dismay,

you tell her to hasten, then she hastens

while i stare at her waving arms

and her mouth that moves when you aren’t looking,

“hurry it up.”

i can’t hurry it up. i am trying, clock.

“hurry it up.”

so i must concede. what can i do,

as the clock watches with expectation?

i retreat back to my bed.