A Poet's Fable Poem by Donald Chance

In the distance shining, attracting,
eyes strain to focus—slowly it draws near.
One by one they view,
message not understood,
but they fall away to the side,
stacked like cordwood.

Now in my view a handless clock,
presented like a cyclops staring into my eyes.
But when I face it directly, I begin to laugh,
and it builds, waking the stacked lifeless souls.

Quickly they crowd around, puzzled.
I explain it is only dead time—wasted time, poets know it well.
Now they start to see, to understand, and they also laugh.

The scene becomes somewhat normalized
and deserted as they all glide home, perhaps wiser,
but leaving the dead-time clock on the wall for no one.