In Time

by Craig Firsdon

The way eyes always stare
at my shell, my body,
at my broken side,
must be meant to be
unseen.
This circus side show,
geometric abstraction of a form
past it's never existed prime,
warranty expired,
to be stripped for parts.
Eventually.
Maybe.
Most likely
just shipped to the junkyard cemetery
buried alongside the other defectives
or quickly oven-smelted,
if lucky.
We are told over and over again
like fusion flame welding into our minds
that the inevitable will happen,
only rely on it and taxes
to become a reality.
The inevitability is killing me,
really.
"It'll be your time when it is meant to be"
I don't wear a watch, never have,
and the only time piece in my possession
lays in my drawer, broken,
unable to tell me when this "time" is.
A broken time-harnessed body
laying in a coffin not of its making
waiting to be fixed,
knowing it never will,
yet never wanting it to happen.