The hand on the clock twitches forward
skinny little spider leg
counting seconds with devotion
assembly line of tiny jewels
proof we are still here
yet we swat at them like mosquitoes
when we are running late
or worse
we ignore them
focusing only when they stack
into the heap of a day
I remember the first time I read
that four babies are born
every second
I couldn’t take my eyes off the clock
so much enormousness
squeezed through the eye
of each tick tick tick
you’d think it would grind
the magic of new life
into a smear of commonness
but if you step inside the fact of it
it does the opposite
it’s enough to break your heart
the insistence
of all that hope.