I wade the droppings,
a multitude
of problems.
The black phone
rings alarm,
“maydaymayday!”

I listen politely
state back facts,
as I see them, but
you won’t have it.
You writhe
I listen
you whine
I feign concern.
What more?
Alas, I
can not warp time.
I know too well
this thing
you think
you want,
this thing
you think
I hold.

I walk to the window
take out my timepiece
not to warp time
nor to check the dial,
but to admire
the intricate scroll
and sailing ship
of the casing.

I am far from
your troubles
with their value
of droppings
from vultures
that forever circle
Pilot Mountain,
which breaches the horizon
lovely, like a woman’s breast.

02/16/2006

Author's Note: Oh client of mine, I am here to serve thee, and I serve thee well.

Posted on 02/16/2006
Copyright © 2026 David Hill