by Brenna Thummler
Tick
Your fingers gallop mindlessly across the desk
Four stifled horses looking for something to do
Tock
You mosey five spaces ahead
Thinking the grass might grow quicker on the other side
Tick
The hangnails you pick
Were not even there to begin with
Tock
A car door closes outside your window
You rubberneck, check for a delivery, delinquient, DiCaprio
Tick
You hope for a new notification
And update your status to “feeling disappointed L”
Tock
There are thirty-eight tiles above your head
And seventeen pencils in the holder by your hand
Tick
Your eyes dig for the gold of intrigue
But linger only on recycled material
Tock
Where are the dishes to dry?
The cluttered corners to clear?
The toenails to trim?
Tick
At last an email arrives
With twenty tasks due before noon
Tock tick tock tick tock tick tock
What do you think you’re doing
Just sitting around?
Just sitting around?
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