Time’s Humble Servants

To live is to serve the wayward clock

Photo by Blair Fraser on Unsplash

We’re servants to the clock.
Listening to that train
whistle on chilly
love-fevered mornings,
rumble of tracks on
noir confused
suicidal nights
tight roping along the rails,
waiting for a sign.

We’re servants to the cosmos.
Lonely nights looking at dead
Worlds through the canopy
of pine woods and
Coyote bellowing hours.
Disgusted afternoons
hiding in car
Wondering
if you would have been
a good father at all.

We’re servants to remorse.
to ghostly smoke of a flame,
red-eyed, squinting
in dark passages. Mirages only
A lonely mind can know.
Branded by namelessness
Who am I, you would
Never know me from
from the stranger
On the subway
Or the new man in
Our bed.