and the minute hand
slowly
painstakingly
does its
dirty business

and i wait
for the face on the clock
i wait for a gleam
a glimmer
a smirk
a wink

and nothing in return
it doesnt care
the face goes about its work
stoically
with determination
and a cold precision
heartless and without feeling

and i chuckle
at its impunity
its emboldened stance
above the masses
who huddle by the clock
yearning to be free