They say that
even a broken clock is right twice a day;
and I nod as though
I know what that means,
because the only time I know
is liquid and unchanging
and if it's 5:40 now,
it will be half past noon
next Tuesday
in an hour or so.

They say that punctuality is important;
and I don't argue,
though arguments scream within me,
because I know punctuality
is a pointless labyrinth,
a trap of nothing,
meaningless;
and if I'm on time, I'm late.
Too late to be prepared.

They say that history repeats itself
and I try not to smile mockingly.
I do my valiant best
because the reality I'm aware of,
the history I know is fluid
and not repeating, not stuck,
on pause and aware of what's coming
but forced to wait in suspense
for a consequence.

They say that I'm a little crazy;
and I try to tel them
with a glance, if not in words,
that yes, they're right.
I am a little crazy.
But so are all those
little things, like second hands.
They all cling to faking insanity.