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.