Frozen Time (A Stream of Conscience)

I must be one of those grey standard faces that Mr. Roethke was talking about in his poem Dolor. However, I'm not in an office building surrounded by coworkers all pushed in at their own desks typing away, sending notices, answering calls. I'm just simply sitting in the dining room with three bucks in my pocket, no modes of transportation, with equally poor yet busy friends and oppressively stuck with a total lack of imagination.

There is a compulsion to write something. Perhaps it'll kill some time before my ride shows up and I head in to work all night wasting away for that extra handful of peanuts next week. 

If this were my house, the clock ticking above the table would go straight in the trash. The homeowner's sister insists on having it there and loading it with a new battery whenever it croaks. I presume she thinks the second hand is actually making the rest of the clock function... but it doesn't. The clock is broken. As the old saying goes "a broken clock is at least right twice a day".

The clock goes no where, but I've been here long enough to watch the shadows of the trees outside, oscillate about their source as the sun drags through the sky. These shadows travel faster than the inert minute and hour hand on the actual clock. If we aged faster, say inside of a day, I'm certain this is what it would feel like. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick... I think I can hear my hair growing.