Clocks Tick
for T.L.C.

i.
waiting weeks
for my ink well
to fill up sufficiently
to fill my pen up
as well as for you to float
in a pool of words

poem worthy of a fellow poet
woman fresh and new
fleshed with passion, subdued
as honest as dew

ii.
half-dew it is, said Dylan Thomas
of Welch milk
delivered daily
early mornings

delivery, deliver me
you to deliver to the high priest

but for who to marry
Jehovah’s Witness
or an Anglican altar boy

in public, against a pillar, leaning
pillar bearing the weight
of love’s troubles

somewhere to lean
to bare innermost concerns
yearnings of a girl
turned woman, turned poet

parents watched as the world turned
hearts pound, blood pumped

what she made poetry of
combined in a poem of mine
differences make love
and make love difficult

try to cross the gap of years
to her heart, through Nassau streets
how far would I get before
asked about sanity

about whom she loves, wants,
about the fence in between
she writes, worries

pretty, pretty
with the weight of her troubles
she makes poetry

iii.
instead of mushy, soggy
cornflakes in milk, crisp still, crunchy
with bananas, raisins, strawberries
we’re having breakfast

lunching with her school mates
supper with siblings, parents

her mom’s made okra soup
along with homemade bread

after grace, everyone about the table
bite in, until the pot is empty

with pot scrubber, she’d wish
she were able to scrub away,
like pot-cake after dinner,
what gets between lovers

she used to be skinnier
used to be a teenager
once upon a time


Obediah Michael Smith, 2007
4:41 a.m. 02.12.07
[from about 4:25 a.m. to 5:53 a.m.
hard labor]