This clock is orange and extravagant

like a drink I shouldn’t be drinking because it is only noon

and I have a child.

In a clock,

wild excess is forgiven.

The clock throws so many minutes in the trash,

spends forever buying contraband at every border.

My fingers have given their free will for a little love from this clock.


By my Maker

Uncompromising clocks are miserly with me.
Mondays are not miserable at all.
Monday is a week in infancy,
Filled with promise.
By Saturday there is so much regret.
I am chest deep in the wet of Wednesday,
My breath black smog.
The afternoon is another language.
I do not speak.
I was sewn for Sundays.