Box Mother

By Anna Rakos 


The tick-tocking of the clock
moved backwards on her watch,
her wrist another face
that ticked but couldn’t talk.


Although she’s almost twenty
it told her when to hurry.
A to-go mother in a box
was the voice inside the clock.


After counting every second,
and cursing each late night,
it was the clock, or so she reckoned,
who made her feel all right.

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