Dirty Time

To use a minute to measure an hour; an hour for days makes the clock turn sour. Turn with a push, turn with a scowl; turn past day, to greet wolves' howl. How many ticks do you give your life? How many tocks to add to your strife? Surely, there must be a better way to count what we have, day by day. Not with a circle, not with a time; a fictional passing to make life a climb. It says we must labour, says we must toil, to be given the headstone of 'Wealthy Man's Royal'. How many smashed cups until you're an adult? How many deep breaths to stop feeling rattled when your boss chews gum, loud and dirty: how much hatred until you turn thirty? How many books will pout into your lens, left unread, to impress your friends? How many words will the sat nav groan until up is down and you want to go home? When you turn thirty-three, is that the last time you'll roll down your window and- "I SEE THE SEA!" How many shots, how many sips, how many chugs and how many drinks, how much more 'til you look in the mirror, and staring back is your mum's worst fear? How many more times will you go for a run? Eat watermelon? Sit in the sun? When your vision blurs, deteriorates, how much will you miss your daughter's face? One to ten, out of five stars, how is your earthly visit so far? Did you reach eighty? Was it a blur? Does your girlfriend know you love her? Or did you count, obsessive and rushed: one week for your deadline; one month and you're crushed. We are not decades, we are not years; So relax, breathe - time feasts on your fears.