Murder of Time

It’s eight am and the alarm clock is screaming,
like a small child that demands attention.
Thursday morning and all I want is sleep as
it tries to pull me from the warm nest on my bed
into the arctic temperatures of the bedroom.
That sullen little black box with its
glaring red numbers tugs at my consciousness,
preventing me from slipping back into sleep.
It spits out pieces of talk radio and obnoxious
bubble gum pop that irritates my ears
each time the clock goes off at 9-minute intervals.
The mocking little machine with its
ever-changing face is laughing at me.
It ceaselessly counts down the minutes
until I’m late and never sends me off on time.
It’s such a simple contraption composed of
black molded plastic and rainbow wires
and yet it has become my dreaded enemy
every morning as it rudely pulls me from my dreams,
promising another day of paddling up the rampant river.
I suppose that at the end of it all, it’s only up to me
to snatch up the minutes that are whittled off my day,
but in the end I hit the snooze bar again and roll over
knowing that I’m only making it worse as I
bury my nose in the pillow for nine more minutes.

November 14, 2002