The Day After The Clocks...

The Day After The Clocks Go Cuckoo in the Fall

Daylight Saving Time (DST) ends in 2023 on Sunday, November 5th. Everything will be an hour later (although here in Arizona, we don't change our clocks).

————

The throng implored in earnest

as they stalked me to my chair,

why supper wasn’t ready

(they were feeling rather heady

and their legs became unsteady);

at this hour it should be there.

I pointed to the grandpa clock

which stood watch in the hall

and to the cuckoo which would mock

from high upon the wall,

then to the lady, very bare,

whose clock obscures her groin

(a gift my mom-in-law put there,

which she was told was very rare—

the one for which we still don’t care—

a fire-sale in Des Moines).

Three clocks concurred, one more, one less:

there was an hour to go:

the first was just a trifle fast

but by the morning came in last;

the third was always rather slow

(its second hand swung to and fro);

but in-between I’d always seen

the cuckoo clock would hold the mean—

a drop of oil mixed with caffeine

ensured a finely-tuned machine—

before their food arrived at mess

come rain or shine or snow.

I had no choice and so I changed

our clocks the night before:

just yesterday I rearranged

our lives forevermore—

that is, until some months from now

we’d move them back again,

or is that forward?—anyhow,

it’s odd that we, such mortal men,

have magic which can move the sun

upon our will, and fast,

though none of us, alone, can shun

the laws which men have passed,

demanding that we change the hour

our minds and bodies sense,

by means of some uncanny power,

to thither from its whence.

But dogs and cats and chickadees,

the aardvarks, rabbits, bumblebees,

all snarks and sharks and chimpanzees,

and every camel and its fleas,

plus alligators, manatees,

the gentle cows who give us cheese,

our poltergeists and families

are made to feel quite ill at ease—

the Universe itself agrees—

when mealtime brings them to their knees,

delayed, in spite of earnest pleas

by whims of their trustees.

And so, in comfy chair’s embrace,

assuming the position,

I sink into profound disgrace:

another hour I’ll watch them pace—

an hour which I cannot replace—

the longest hour, in which I face

my spaniels’ inquisition.

By Ken Gosse

From: United States

Facebook URL: https://www.facebook.com/ken.gosse/