Killing Time

They of course caught Bulova red-handed.
He had more hands than one, naturally,
but it was the bloody one that mattered—
the third hand, the one entitled second,

the decidedly least minute of the three
sweeping past his dark Samaritan brothers
without even a second’s glance, or the next’s,
like a clockwork Levite or parishing priest.

Even on the palest face of facts, though,
the deed was not executed single-handed:

the long black hand, ironically called minute,
was hardly moved, and never raised in relief;
the shorter hand, the one that measures hours,
seemingly stood stock still, passively abetting.

Did the lost hours get what hours deserve?
Or just whet an appetite? Bulova drew blood;
but read the minutes and you will find guilt:
every day is filled—filled with ours.
every day is filled—filled with ours. And hours.

About Greg Wright

I have worn many hats as a writer and editor over the years. Unlike my scholarly and journalistic work from the "old days" at Hollywood Jesus, Past the Popcorn, or SeaTac Blog, the writing here is of a more overtly personal and spiritual nature. I hope it provokes you as much as it provokes me.
This entry was posted in Other, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <strike> <strong>

*
To prove you're a person (not a spam script), type the answer to the math equation shown in the picture. Click on the picture to hear an audio file of the equation.
Click to hear an audio file of the anti-spam equation