I stalked the clock
following the falling
seconds, rubbing my hands
back-and-forth on the desk,
trying to drag them
with the rhythm of the day.
My dry hands scraped
the surface of the cheap desk,
raking the sound of desert rock-sand.
Rubbing the desk I found
my own time and sweat trails
swirled under my progress.
The scraping turned to
sloshing while I routed
my oasal puddles. The clock
evaporated from purpose.
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