My parents have a lot of clocks.
The tic-tocking is evidence that time is moving even though I’m laying still.
I’ve been belly down on the carpet for a while now,
Staring my dog in the face.
She’s sleeping.
In the middle of the front entry way.
She can’t be bothered by me.
I’m bothered by her not wanting to cuddle.
Sometimes, all I want is to cuddle.
To the left of me a clock from the living room ticks.
Behind me, one from the kitchen.
They aren’t in synchrony, so I don’t know which one to believe.
Kind of like when there’s one story told from two points of view.
One of them has to be embellishing something.
Like one of those clocks has to be racing.
I wonder what would make time speed.
Is she afraid of red lights?
Does she hold the calves of olympic runners in her palms?
When does she eat dinner?
There’s a clock in front of me, although it’s not tocking like the rest.
This clock glows blue.
It’s resting under the TV that rarely gets turned on by me.
I haven’t quite figured out how to skip all the commercials in my life.
These clocks won’t let me forget that the show is not stopping.
There’s so much tick-tocking here.
More than I’ve ever heard before.
Unless I’ve been in a clock museum and I’ve forgotten…
But I don’t think anyone could forget that much tick-tocking.
Not even me.
Although, I’m not that great with details.
And people often think I’m a better listener than I really am.
I used to listen to the clock in my bedroom as it sang tunes like birds on the hour.
My favorite was the soft coo-ing of the mourning dove that rang at 7 o’clock.
The clocks my parents have now aren’t as soothing as that.
The tocks and the ticks make me anxious.
Like I’m supposed to have somewhere to be.
Or I’m supposed to have people around me.
But I don’t have either.
I’ve told the clocks to stop pressuring me but they continue to tick.
They must listen like I do.


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