microwave dinners. A poem by John Keane

a big old clock, ticked, tocked, rocked and blocked our view
bore it’s weight, battled late, a life spent passing through

dinners rushed, children hushed, dreams means to an end
missing calls, so longs in halls,
less benefits of friends

favourite bands just cancelled plans, Santa in September
traffic jams on pre packed hams, short cuts to remember

a faster pace, hours chased, restricted visit times
a life on screen, remote scenes, no options to rewind

faster foods, apps for moods, help lines for the helpers
kettles on, wont be long, for take outs from the shelter

but that clock has stopped, it’s hands have dropped, resting by it’s side
a forceful pause, some escape clause,
no where yet to hide

now moments all illuminate,
those digits in our heads
being cast in to our memories
as time waits for us instead


John on Facebook.

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