Everywhere in the house,
the announcement of time,
time on the microwave,
time on the kitchen stove,
time on the landline,
the cell phone,
the cable box,
my laptop,
all at 11:01 a.m.
Only the coffeemaker is bold enough
to stand out uniquely at 11:03.
I retrace my chronicled steps and
everywhere I am snared in time.
How did time invade our hallowed
well-protected time-proof house?
Even my soothing meditation on
timelessness is specifically timed,
allowing fifteen uninterrupted minutes
of orchestrated regulated bliss.
I try to break time’s spell by setting
the alarm clock five minutes ahead,
my wristwatch five minutes behind.
Have I gained ten minutes of eternity
by deleting ten minutes of time?
The mantel clock I inherited from my grandfather
has not been wound in thirty nine years,
yet displays exact time precisely two times a day,
no more, no less.