Howard Firkin
The day that daylight saving ends and I’m
the only person in the city late—
last fish to spawn; the river at its spate—
it’s me against the clock, man versus time.
I think we can predict a nil-one score.
Perception slows with age, so time speeds up.
My heart beats faster; breath grows shorter;
the ground beneath my feet has turned to water;
I spill food down my front, upset my cup.
Clocks can’t be bothered lying any more.

From somewhere in reflections, old age winks,
and smiles, its gums withdrawn around its teeth,
obscene and certain—no one thinks
that time will beggar all: love and belief