My clock is late. I tell you this
because it does not ring on time.
It does not sound on top the hour,
instead it waits past four.
Though perhaps if you held time
within your palms and pores,
you, too, would manipulate
and scheme up satisfaction.
It serves me well regardless,
so I guess I'll let this slide.
Clocks, after all, are like the hourglass
but more gentle on the heart.
They show the truth, nothing less,
and do this in a way
that does not give you anxiety
or fear for what is lost.
It's manner is docile with a hint
of rebellion, as I have learned.
But all is well. I'm never late.
And I've learned to live with it.