Five hours

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.

On The Awakening

When she awoke – truly and deeply
woke from the sleep induced by testosterone,
drugged with masculinity, weighed down
by society’s down comforter – she looked
to the future as her own. Liberated,

she was called many names. Her favorite dirty
word was feminist, though she would be called
much worse. The word that stuck was independent,
married as it was to happiness, sealed with a kiss,
they lived happily ever after.