While waiting for a day and at least one part of the summer to end, I write a poem

by Mr. Sheehy

Poem written while working in a furniture warehouse

Oh, my dear clock,



the next time I peek back into this office

after sweeping the floor or
pacing the aisles searching for something
that might have moved
during the 20 minutes since I last eyed it,


move your little hand a little further,

Far enough that my dulled imagination might spark,
like the two wheeled dolly on the concrete floor,

and I could think of something other than
your thin black arms
piercing your plastic casing and reaching
to choke me –

the big hand abandoning its task while on the eight,
the little hand never actually reaching
the two.