Poetry Pick

THE GLASS CLOCK by Chris Butler Ontario, Canada

See that ashtray, That glass clock without hands. Beneath the layers of soot Time turns black. Another ash tumbles, Losing heat as it falls. A carbon copy of the last, Filed quietly away. The glass clock upon the wall Reflects the smouldering embers, Like the eye of a gypsy That burns to glimpse fate. I cannot filter tomorrow, or rebreathe yesterday. Yet the smokescreen appears to witness predictions. I suck in the grey seconds Until lungs can tick tock. The answer's on the exhale, Too fine to comprehend, If a deck of tarot cards Becomes a deck of cigarettes Death still waits to play When I crack the cellophane. See that ashtray, That glass clock without hands. At times when it is empty The moment becomes clear. Then another ash tumbles Losing heat as it falls. So shall I one day, So shall I. From Tower Poetry, Vol. 47#2

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