The Hands Of The Clock Poem by RIC BASTASA

when we were young
we do not mind the clock
we are not so sure about
pendulums
we can even mistake the
long for the short hand
or if we mind time
for sometime
it is because we are late
for the dance or the
drinking spree

and then time has a way of
calling our attention
when our hairs starts to
look like seaweeds drying
under the summer
sun

now we are old like tree
shedding off most of its leaves
our twigs are infested with
fungus
and some of the tips of our roots
are rotten

then time begins to have fingernails
scratching our bellies
we begin to grow the seeds of
fear in our palms
our foreheads have furrows
like the pathways of the plow

at night we know how the long hand
runs with speed
it is 2: 30 a.m. and then we switch the
light again
and too confused how
the clocks strikes 4 a.m.

we cannot go back to sleep
as we fall on the chasms of the past
we try to drink a cold glass of
the future
and it begins to have the bitter taste
of the love
unrequited.