Time, measured
On a pocket watch,
Affixed to my side
By a fake-gold chain,
Opened by spring
-loaded button,
Ticks gently by.
I could be waiting
For a train
I could be waiting for my love,
But I am not.
I am not waiting.
Time, confirmed
By the phone
In my pocket,
Connected to everyone
By the faux-magic
Of technology,
brushes by,
Like a man late for work,
Navigating a crowded subway platform
I could be
On my way to work,
I could be
Hurrying along,
But I am not
I am not moving
Time, announced
By the first rays of dawn,
Washes over me,
Its true-golden light
Wrapping me,
And the world
In the new day.
I am
Still.
E.H. Decker is the name of a pen, like Mark Twain, not A.T. Cross. Said pen belongs to a father of two writing between jobs on movies, parenting and obsessing over movies, tv, music, wine and words. Comments here are encouraged so long as you can be respectful to others and you have actually taken the time to read what you're commenting on.
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