A tick, it's just the clock
I need to think, but I'm waiting,
Waiting for her knock. The candle,
The wick is almost gone. I start
to walk, up and down. I lick
My lips. The room begins to rock.
I feel sick. Is the door locked?
I kick my toe. A rock? No a brick.
From the dock. A trick. Dumb jock.
My sock feels slick. I talk in
Epic shock, quickly, the clicking
blocks the thick mocking. Tick-tocking, tick-tocking.
The intent of my poem is to make it sound like a clock ticking as the person waits for someone to arrive. He israther anxious about the arrival and as the anxiety increases the ticking gets closer together and louder, invading his thoughts. I’m also reading Ulysses in my modernism class, so there’s some stream of conscious influenced stuff in there, I think.
Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft
All Rights Reserved
1 comment:
The Official Review from my poetry teacher:
I think this poem is actually pretty darn good, if occasionally narratively hard to follow...
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