Limited Time Only

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Her arse upon the clock hand like a builder
on a steel beam at lunchtime; tin pail filled
with sandwiches. The free-fall, a sober referee,
can only instil fear for so long – eventually,
the bored worker becomes inclined to tricks,
such as poetry instead of sales copy: a call
to action written in metered prose, replete
with highfalutin adjectives. Nothing to lose:
no mortgage, no kids, not even a cat to feed –
she walks the length of hours and minutes like
Philippe Petit dancing above Manhattan
on a piece of wire – untouchable. While time
gathers its own momentum; the whistle shrieks
as one shift ends and another begins. Unlimited.
Anticipating the alarm clock on the morning of
another life. Chasing lucidity upwards.

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