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.