The clock tick-tocks a slug's rhythm;
one wonders if the hands leave slimy trails,
or if they'd wither with a pinch of salt.
Four o'clock is far away—
three hours as the gastropod slithers.
Scrawling aimless lines of ink—
counting slugs until appointed time.
This poem, trivial in scope,
is no great salve for curing boredom—
better not to think impossibility.
But if the hands were counting crows
instead of slugs, to quiet boredom’s voice
and blind the eye to ticking clocks
that tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock,
one wouldn't need to worry
that the hands leave slimy trails.
Keith E. Sparks Jr.
Copyright © 2004, 2019
Written in 2004, Later appeared in "Facets" 2019
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