Rush Hour (Poetry)

The minute will not stop for me or anyone —
it squirms itself away — a quick thin worm of time
vanishing — a tarnished silver flimsy string —
a loop untying itself — unravelling —
fraying into nothing even as I try
to snatch the end — a loose thread that dangles —
lures with its hypnotic tick... tick ...tick...
the click of tiny footsteps echoing as it rushes off
into some obscure dimension where
great wild herds of minutes roam — the past
an infinite dusty plain of odd moments — gaps between
split seconds — rounded up and browsing on
the scraps from broken watches — interrupted lives
piled like rocks dotted in a circle — ruins of schedules — brittle
with dates crumbling — all those lost
opportunities — the dry grains trickling
from a cracked hourglass. And so
history winds the rusted spring of habit
and unchecked the haunted wastelands of regret
grow and grow and grow...