|Time To. Photo by Kyla|
My clocks are all going out dancing around midnight and I don't expect any sense out of them til sometime mid-week. At some point they'll stagger homeward, dragging cords, shedding a stray numeral here and there, chips in their plastic and scratches on their faces. They'll hover at my windows, buzzing and chiming and ticking, until I wake up and decide whether or not to let them in.
One year I didn't. I'd gotten sick and tired of time altogether. That year it took three days for them to give up. One of those still lives under the back porch, I think, because occasionally I see a faint digital glow through the floorboards out there. The others washed down the street in a sudden rainstorm, and I never saw them again.
The next week I had to give in and go buy new clocks. My cat kept waking me up, wanting to know what time it was.