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Ode To The Tardy MAG
I have never been a particularly punctual person.
The self-righteous numbers of the clock sneer tyrannically
from their executive post on the wall.
Who voted these curvy characters into office?
Sadistic six lounges with her mouth gaping open in laughter all day
mocking our toil in this twisted game.
Supercilious one stares down his steeply sloped nose at us
while we grovel below unthinkingly
chained to appointments, barred in by schedules
enslaved by the ticking of three patronizing and inconsiderate hands.
Maybe there will be a day when
every gaudy obnoxious cuckoo clock will
chirp its last chirp before evaporating into extinction
sent wherever dodos and dinosaurs were banished
perhaps floating in isolated bubbles in space
or reincarnated as feathered action figures doomed to
collect dust on some shelf and never
plague us again with their horrid squawking.
Cantankerous alarm clocks will sit staunchly on trial in Nuremberg
for their transgressions against humanity.
Belligerent grandfather clocks will bow their
crotchety, controlling wooden heads
beneath French guillotines.
Brave Sons of Liberty will dump Swatches into the harbor
The Boston Clock Party.
All the world’s digital and analog alike will be burned at the Salem stake,
with malicious twos and sevens and eights crackling and
flying in embers through the air
until every last conniving figure is reduced to the simplest fraction
in a pile of gears, springs, and ash
human order destroyed and natural order restored.