the clock spits time on name-labeled strips
that measure numbered moments in a waking life.
four hundred eighty minutes is a working day
(with thirty off for lunch).
each minuteís worth (correctly punched)
is slightly less than ten-cent pieces in the till.
Its digital display dispenses proof:
that money equals time,
come in paycheck-perfect increments.
are filled to capacity
with throbbing, canned nostalgia;
and loud speakered,
too thinned by heat to resist.
drink sun-drenched colors
shimmering among the queues
of wishful strangers
for a Wonderful Time.
shrinks from the white-hot glare
of too much fun,
while my nose inhales
the two-step rhythm of scorching fat
flavoring the air.
Itís a cornucopic feast,
fiesta-fresh and glittering;
a village of strangers
in the Great American quest
THE IMAGE IN THE
When did life begin to wane?
When did I meet the other side of growth?
Which birthday beacon
pointed to the seasonís change
from springtime novelty to fall?
When did the glow of youth withdraw?
Which morning did I wake and see with certainty
the bloom was off the rose
that knights would never joust for me?