What the Clock Said

When I was young, the afternoons were countries with no border known, and summer hummed its lazy tunes through fields where I could walk alone. But somewhere in my thirties, time began to run a different race— the hours lost their easy rhyme, the days picked up a stranger's pace. Now Tuesday bleeds through Wednesday's door, and months go by like passing cars. I swear that I've been here before— same intersection, same red stars. The clock says nothing I don't know. It only says: you ought to go.