I add five to the clock. You’re probably winding wool
instead of clock hands, a view of Big Ben
from your office window, the smell of shepherds pie
blowing into the London air. My pie is apple, or
it would be if I took the time. Galas are
my favorites, though from time to time I will
condescend to red delicious. The clock meanders,
minutes mirrored around a globe revolving once a day
or so, while I despair at crawling five hours behind. I wonder
what you’re doing with your head start and if I’ll ever
catch up to you, dark hair wound between
five fingers, clock hands frozen at midnight.
