Tick-Tock
My life is sixty seconds on a clock.
One minute counted by a dangerously thin hand.
I'm unsure if it ticks or sweeps.
Twelve to two feels like a tick.
Two to three feels like a sweep.
It's only three o'clock, two-thirty if I'm lucky.
Maybe I'm unlucky and it's eleven.
I'm not sure how I'm supposed to know.
I wish I could stop counting.
I appreciate the short length of this poem because it made me feel, through its small box shape, the feeling of being trapped, which the speaker experiences in sixty second cycles.
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