Clockwork
I watch their faces as their watches tick by, marking out arbitrary sections of time that have been and gone and would never come back. Their hands, mostly left clasping right, or right clasping left, holding the odd newspaper or the odd trash tabloid, grasping the odd book like a lifeline.
I wrote a poem about all this once, in hope that nailing it down in some form will cease the haunt. But every day, I am spooked by the same images, I hear the perpetual clock in their steps as serious black heels and no-nonsense black loafers tap down the sidewalks, neatly tucked underneath groomed black suits. The clock whose hands swing ever so slightly onwards as their arms swing like stray pendulums at their sides. Why do I think of soldiers? I hear the buzzing of the hive.
Their unsmiling faces in their swish little cars. Swish little boxes which go zoom when the light goes green. I hear the rumbling of the hive deep in its bowels, obeying unconscious commands. Who gets the honey?
Posted by sniffles at July 01, 2002 10:33 PM