The clock in the train station
has an itch in its back.
Rock-paper-scissor between
The second-minute-hour hands-
As to who shall scratch it
This time. And just for a while,
Everywhere- time has stopped
Past midnight.
No one is partying,
Making out or cursing their
Bosses or waiting for the
Next weekend.
None is hungry for a while.
Or depressed or dying
Out of shame. Or trying
Hard to fit in somewhere.
No power change, no war or
A threat of a nuclear attack.
It's just quiet- insects have
Found a comfortable niche.
Dogs free of leashes and the
Mountains, don't want to slide.
And before it could have
Gotten any better,
An abrupt streak of light
Appears in the dark sky.
This time, the minute-hand
Lost it, it seems,
Now that the back has been
Scratched-
Suddenly,
There are forest fires.
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