THE TICK OF TOCK

cannot be
reclaimed.
It vanishes
& shape shifts
into an easy
old shoe
dance
of lies.

I loved
that woman.
But can't
be sure
who
that woman
is
now.
Or
who she was
then.

Only
a refrain
returns.
Who wrote it
or sung it
I can't be sure.

Years
have turned
while the wind
scratches
its dead
from branches.

Soon it will be dry.
And then moist.
A jack-o-lantern smile
will beckon.
And then jingles.
And I'll be me
and you, you.
What could be
never was.
Perfectly
empty, allowing
a metronome
of sorrow
to play
over
& over
& over
again.


Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015