For Hours...

T-minus four hours
until impending doom strikes.
And I am only armed with a wrench, and leather gloves.
Workman's hands on the face of a ticking clock
Stockyards ablaze with the fires of disregard
And cigarette butts cower in the corner,
Only themselves to blame.
I follow this road until it ends
And drive until I am out of fuel
And all the while wonder what even brought me here
To begin with
Benign, banal desire?
Or a whim?
Maybe a little of both.
Probably neither.
I guess I'll find out soon enough
And I with my wrench and leather gloves
Will I need to repair another
Broken clock
Or will it be my time
This time?