p
o
e
m
s

The house passes a bailout for time. Every day

is shortened by two hours. It’s ratified

in the senate; the president, may he die, applauds.

They underpay workers to go around adjusting clocks

so the minute hands can keep up the pace. Watches

go on strike, then grandfather clocks, then phones. We go

back to sundials, and when it rains we hold each other’s

contacts up to our floor lamps (we have so many

floor lamps now) and wherever the spotlight falls

we wait until it turns green. No one assassinates

the president yet. Why depends on where

you’re reading this. There’s a law against spit now.

A city ordinance for limelight. All the op-ed pages

are in agreement about the uselessness of forms,

and in Alabama, we’re told a man had himself declared

legally miraculous. I disagree with the premise.

The alarm clocks have a picket line: they march

in figure eights around city hall, waking everyone up.

Young radicals get tattoos of the hours.

Nothing is done so much lately. There’s talk

of the rich being able to buy themselves another week.

The days are laid off. The seasons tighten their belts.

Bradley Trumpfheller is the author of a chapbook, Reconstructions (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2020).

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