Untitled poem by Claire Bourdow

For sale: clock. Used. Good condition.

Never been touched, only stared at.

Exclusively by the faces of boredom. 

Faces longing to be let out.

Faces that watch, faces that wait. 

Faces that anticipate every tick.

Every tick by one red hand. 

The one that determines every tock.

The tock that determines what’s left.

The tock that counts time lost.

Time wasted. Taken by one red hand.

For sale: red hand. Worth more. 

 

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