Poem-A-Day: Day 171

Transpirate

Surreptitiously I wander
leaving silent, printless footsteps,
and stop periodically to check the time.

     It is time.

Though I know not for what,
or why the clocks always appear
the way they do, casting shadows down.

     It is time.

I tend to downplay the events
that typically lead up to the checking.
My watch, as I watch, moves slowly, ticking.

     It is time.

I time the seconds just to see
if they, for some strange anomaly,
are moving slower or faster than normal.

     It is time.

So I pack my things and go,
leaving behind my misplaced wonder,
and the last great thing that I ever watched

     transpire.