What do you like to do in yours?
the young ones ask. You scowl and stare.
As if such time were ever there:
a bonus, not the sand that pours
the hour through the hourglass,
but extra, added at the top,
that only gets its chance to drop
once sixty proper minutes pass,
and measures out a stretch best spent
on hobbies, lest you grow so bored
you think some thought you canít afford
or wonder where your memory went.
They smile, still waiting. Do they share
some happy clock that chimes XIII?
Smile back, say something. Donít be mean.
Theyíll learn in time no time is spare.
If you have any comments on this poem, Robert West would be pleased
to hear from you.