By John Grey

The clock on the wall

is more in charge

than any manager.

But its transit

is slower than the sun’s.

While you pray for

the coming of five o’clock,

minutes bog down

like roots…

not even seconds 

can be counted on.

And then there’s 

the shadow you make

on your watch’s face.

The hands stop.

They can’t see

where they’re going.

Copyright© 2021 by John Grey

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