Clock This, Clock

I glance at the clock,

not because I want to see the time,

and thus calculate how much of the day

I have already expertly wasted (all of it)

 

but simply because it is there.

‘Shut up,’ I say to its impertinent silence.

‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you

that it is rude to point?’

I seem to have it in for the clock today.

 

‘And what sort of face

has three hands anyway,’

the anyway pointing to my petulant mood,

like the clock pointing its accusing hour hand

at the number eleven.

 

If the clock is aspiring to be some form of

Hindu clock God, it should give up now.

Three hands is not enough hands

for such an endeavour

and it’s never going to work.

 

I replace the clock

with a hand-painted Italian plate,

artfully depicting a Tuscan scene,

having decided that, for today at least,

I am in the mood for something timeless.