Clock’s
ticking and I don’t give a shit
Soon
I’ll be fifty and there’s nothing that can be done about it
When
we resist Chronos all that happens is nothing and wrinkles still unstitch us
Sometimes
we outlast the worst of conditions while other times the conditions eat our
lunch, leaving us sad and hungry for past indiscretions
I
was drafting you as you sped along like a racecar or unglued horse and it kept
things light and breezy until we passed each other like two ships in the onyx,
unclasped night
You
never were much for crooning and that’s alright because my singing voice is for
the birds and the birds are tone deaf and unimpressed by stable geniuses
Let’s
hold hands as we jump off the unprepared cliff and accept once and for all
you’re with someone else and significant others have never done much for my
status as a lone poet in a forest of ne'er-do-wells
I
can still see you rolled up in an Oriental rug like an uninvited casualty that
never quite knew his or her place in this peanut butter and jelly routine of
thingamabobs and doodads
You’re
like the kitchen drawer that doesn’t quite fit and keeps pretending it’s not a
catch-all for everything that’s unwilling to be so easily defined
Clock’s
bleating like a constipated sheep that needs to either get on the pot or
finally piss off
Soon
the prospect of burning to a crisp won’t be so unpleasant to think about as
remedial watches slow down to a stop and deplorable people learn once and for
all why the right to vote is our nation’s only true cornerstone
When
we resist Father Time it’s to our detriment because we only have so many
seconds before the jig is up and we’re left dancing with death
Charles Cicirella
11/17/18 
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