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Rated: E · Poetry · Experience · #2260692
Memories of analog clocks and lazy summer days.
Six o'clock, and there's the dawn,
Shocked to waking by a harsh alarm.
I curse the hand that turned it on
And when I hear the final gong,
Roll over with a mighty yawn--
Ten minutes more in bed, and what's the harm?

Twelve o'clock and little done.
Oh, little dial, where have the hours gone?
So swiftly have the seconds run
My chores are only half-begun;
Yet here I sit and watch the sun
Chase the morning shadows off the lawn.

Ten o'clock! That little arm
Waved once or twice and now the day is done.
Its ticking casts an evil charm.
I wind the spell, I seal my karma,
Calmly setting the alarm.
Too little sleep--and then the day's begun.
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