My pocket watch is melting. Blame Dali
for the drip of time, as if canvas dries
to fix a moment and nightmares are held,
lucid and laminated, against hours
of boredom borne by ants. Sure, that makes sense.
At night, the bathroom tap extends mere dark
into slow torture. When washers grow old
and joints are not so tight, blame the prostate
for staccato spurts, as each second counts
down the hallway's cooling with entropy.
