It’s getting ugly out here.
Bad breath, howling and broken glass.
The sidewalks are littered with fear
And I don’t know when it’ll pass.
The clocks could soon move their hands
Or they could be stuck just the same.
You can’t be sure how it all lands
And if you could what’d be the point when it came.
The cluttered noise gathers and swells together
Risen in breadth and bare volume
Until its weight and mass is heavier
And the voices throb and welter with impending doom.
Standing on my dried up lawn
As cars and people go screeching past
The sun sinks until it is near gone
And it’s orange umbra is all that lasts.
There are cold beers in the cooler at my feet
And the cars and people are welcome
To rush past if it does to please
But I’ll drink beer and leave seldom.
The steady hum and whir are their sounds.
A pace beyond the one I’ve secured
And found fit for setting my feet in the ground.
Only a sound I occasionally heard.
I couldn’t catch them if I wanted
Though it’s true I do not.
Their violent trajectory is flaunted
And its velocity gathers with each person caught.
It is getting ugly out there I think
And it may be warmer inside
Where it is quite safe to blink
And carry on undisguised.
The clocks don’t move inside
Though neither are they fixed.
It’s that they tell time by divides
And not on a tick.