Body Clock

both hands, the stoic hour

and promiscuous minute

temporarily hold station

and lurk tardily between

numerals two and three

there being no second hand

to give any semblance

of the passage of time,

following surgery,

I feel every heartbeat

and have become my own

personal timepiece,

tossing and turning like a child

told to stay in bed until

the little hand strokes

the distant seven,

a life spent solving peoples’

problems, causes me to lie

awake, an insomniac hitchhiker

expectantly awaiting the sun

to broach the horizon and

lift me into a new day

Published by grahamrsherwood