Hidden Vault
1. Spring Forward
The government’s at it
again, tampering time
and we must stagger
behind, wishing Salvador Dali
minutes would lag instead
of broad-jump.
April, the month of taxes
and poetry. Light
trails us like a street
urchin dragging his bags.
We are thanked for our
gifts to government with jet-lag
and loss of easeful dark,
pumped with big-top minutes
and forward-swapped. But
where do they keep
the acrobat hour? I find
in my purse
only shadows and stars.
2. Stashed
I imagine that Congress
stashes that saved hour
in a teak box with
mother-of-pearl stars
and blue satin lining. Or
a big penny jar
shaped like a trumpeting
elephant, the lock
in his upraised trunk.
But too many of us
have a key, for every
fall we find it looted
and empty as the bank for
sale I once saw.
The silver-hinged vault
lay open for deposits of dust.
Ghost hours danced in that
twilight mouth.
I can't put my overtime
in anything so wide
or keep my worries in
such an open box.
3. Fall Back
When skeletons dance and
red devil leaves seesaw,
the clock spins
backwards. Spring forward, fall back,
I repeat to timepieces
whose hands I wring.
The powers-that-save
loose a phantom hour
to imp my dreams.
Afternoons are still-life,
a hummingbird’s whirring
immobility.
I see now why we must
hoard every spark
against twilight's
snip-end, against the dark
dot of a question mark.