You talk to me

I look away

You say something

And I’m looking away

At the corner of the room,
Where the wall and wall meet
At the top of the sky of the ceiling
I stare there, as if the wall will melt away

And then you’re done talking,
And I look at your face
And it shines back at me
And I smile
Until my cheekbones hurt
And my teeth,
My teeth slowly tilting away
As I grind them to bits,
They show themselves to you
As my lips part
And I hold your hand
And we walk in the rain

And I see the clock across the street,
The one with the thousand counting-down faces
And it’s ticking away
As we walk, a metronome.

I heard clocks are moving forward tonight.
One less hour.
Some of the clocks change automatically
Some need adjusting,
The ones that don’t get the message
From the secret senders that bring the news
Some clocks are left out in the cold,
Alone

If those clocks were never told,
They’d always be one hour behind the rest,
Ticking proudly away and never knowing
That the clocks in the know were snickering at them
Would it be better off, that ignorance?
For god’s sake, I’d step forward
And change that clock so that it would tell the time correctly.
But I don’t. I didn’t. I never did.

I wait for midnight to strike
So I can see which clocks will change;
My wristwatch, my computer,
My cable box, my microwave,
Sentry points across this miniature box of an apartment
I call my home.
Aside from their minutes being all different,
They’re all the same.

The lights are dim.
And I still wait.

The fool waits
As the clock ticks
To see if it will change.

And the answer?
Oh, yes, it changes

What did she say to me?
And where was I when she spoke

I try to stare at all four clocks at the same time, and can’t

Welcome...back

Many months have passed.
The earth has shifted.
Spring has returned.
The year is 2005...the year of the...wait a second. Someone's screaming or yelling outside my window. It sounds resentful...angry.
Welcome to New York. I'm in a very small apartment, with a sofa-bed and and a kitchen made for hobbits. It has a half-fridge, and a half-table, and a half-cutting board, and a mini-stove, and a tiny window. And the studio is mine alone...though the exposed toilet sitting downstairs in the laundry room disturbs me a little. Still, I should be glad there's even a laundry room (I hear you, jealous angry people!)

The yelling has stopped. Sometimes even New York has its limits.