Grandfathered

Paris, photo courtesy of Unsplash

Time’s avidity tainted
With indignant blame,
It may as well be time
Eating up my extra dimes

‘Stead of looking mirrors in the eye,
Face sadder than a featherless peacock
Since it’s easy to throw shame
On something neither real

Nor false, that only talks
Back in ticks and tocks,
Yet keeps solemn promise
To draw curtains on gravid pain

That’s the thing about clocks,
Even if you drop them —
Right on their flimsy heads
In broad daylight

Blameless fuckers…
Offering second chances and hindsight,
Even windless and dead,
They’re always right