Entire of Itself
Seldon,
It is eight fifty-five and the distant stars have hidden their fires. Little children have whispered fears of many headed monsters under every blessed bed. Older ones will not recall any nine o’clock curfew.
It’s eight fifty-six and she’s stood him up. She wouldn’t ever go out with him, not even if his dick was studded with diamonds. Night clouds smother his shame.
It’s eight fifty-seven, so dark outside, the man down the chip shop watches the clock. Fish sizzle, golden in fatty batter, not so long ago they used to swim; but there’s no such thing as a swimming saveloy.
It’s eight fifty-eight, a blister bursts on a barmaid’s foot. Her new shoes were an instant shipwreck, and last orders are still distant.
It’s eight fifty-nine, a seagull wakes and laughs to itself. Time is ridiculous.
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