Speed of Time

By Paul Wat

I can see the hour hand,
But not the path of the pen

The beating of the seconds’ march is audible
The claws at the slate non existent

The stench of the on going workers,
Pounding away in vicious circles

Tasting the foul breath
As the minutes pass

I can feel hours go by
Pressure building in my mind

Staring, time slows to a halt
A train stopping before a station
I inspect the minutes board he engine,
One that treks on forever towards infinity

The pen slips from my hand
As I rest my head in my elbow
Still watching as time slowly passes

As I slouch,
Waiting for time to pass
I wonder,
When will vacation come?