I had this one-room place
that overlooked the supermarket
loading dock. I trash-picked
a card table, the folding kind,
to serve triple-duty as a dining table,
desk, and night stand.
To be sure I made it to work,
I kept an alarm clock at the corner
of the table nearest the head
of my bed.
In summer, I slept
with the windows open, and at dawn
the alarm would go off like a nail gun
through my hangover.
More than once
I swatted it from the table
and out the window into the alley
below. Later that day I'd buy
a new clock, and the cycle
would begin again.
I don't remember how many
clocks met their fate
on that alley floor
before I lost the job,
the apartment,
or both.
But the janitor surely must have
marveled at the sight:
all those shattered faces
staring up at him
as if he were God.
Even back then, your muse was at work. All right, so Salvador Dali melted clocks and you swatted them out the window. So what? Art is art, right?
Posted by: Trainwatcher | June 22, 2012 at 07:24 PM