This is one of my best poetry efforts, which is the product of a semester of revisions. My professor was of the tough-love variety. In my opinion, they can often be the best type – one works harder than usual to impress the professor (or spite them by being successful, as in my case). I have recently revisited it and done a bit more work. Any (constructive) thoughts or comments are welcome.
Looking at a Clock
A first cry – of dismay perhaps
to the man and his aggressive swinging briefcase:
alone with the acrid smell of sanitization,
impersonal stiff white sheets, and burning machinery.
Silhouettes of scrolling hands burn into her eyes.
Is it sliding stacks of documents that obscure your view?
Eternity holds its breath. Stopped.
A man and a woman and a fist
know the cycles and the song.
In their four eyes, four reflections of the clock,
and the only moving things are silent snowflakes.
I know the rhythms of my world:
a floor scattered with broken glass, shards of breath;
the children’s eyes fixed on the hand
overlooking the quiet square in the moonlight.
The clock counts down, gloomily waiting
as icicles melt and drip. A somber symphony drifts upward.
The golden gears give off a faint industrial hum.