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.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *


Opus Archive!

Check out the history of our pages here!