Squeezing Time Out Of A Clockwork Lemon...
I live in a tight little universe of words,
My grip on moments of writing impelled,
Compressed by the numerolgy,
Soulless beeping numbers of the no-longer ticking,
Clocks that wind up being an anachronism.
I own one or five of those,
If time were an orange,
Ray Bradbury could rejoice,
Cut it in ever-smaller wedges,
Knowing it was sweet.
Time is a lemon my friends,
Fertilized in the bowels of corporate crapitalism,
Sour and tart enough to wash windows,
An acid-etched thimble of life-juice.
Still I write,
Of seeds and sun and ancient things,
There in the juice and pulp of a quick-drying moment.
Perhaps this is why an alarm does what it does,
Makes me pucker and squint.
By Daniel A. Stafford