Passing Time

a pot-bellied vase sits on the glass
of a round coffee table while my
meandering thoughts appear then
disappear, leaving me with this
somewhat boring line-of-sight residue;
lace curtains with green tops seem
to guard all my windows and different
styles of grandfather clocks form the
walls of my cube-like prison, none of
which shed any light on the correct time,
as I presume this self-exile will endure
the night and I will be left, as always,
with brief catnaps of nightmarish similarity;
an image of drowning sits in front of me
like a nude prostitute needing sex and willing
to offer discounts to her first ten customers;
but, I am without coin in my pocket and the
advice of a Dutch Uncle rings in my head,
who said, "wisdom cures nothing but
serves only to pass the time..."

9Jul13