I circumnavigate the house
hoping I don't forget any of the dozens of clocks I have somehow acquired.

They are ubiquitous
on the stove, microwave, coffeemaker, radio, 
TV and VCR.

I always forget at least one
usually the one in the car, which flips me out when I am rushing for the train.

But what really get me is this:

how can you lose an hour?
I mean, seriously,
where does it go?

I imagine it sitting in a green room somewhere
waiting to be called back into service in October, or is it November?
I can never remember.

Anyway—there it sits—bored, lonely,
reading Huxley's Time Must Have a Stop
or Jack Finney's Time and Again
or watching The Hours with Nicole Kidman and Meryl Streep.

You shut the door behind it, saying,
"Thank you for your services.  We will call you when we need you."

"You will miss me,"
our little hour grumbles to no one in particular.
"Wait until your project is due and, with a just a little more time, you could finish it."

Or until you are holding your sweetheart—dreading the call to board the flight that will take her
away for months and maybe forever.

This hour—every hour—is precious
and we only get so many.

© by Judi Brown.
Used with the author's permission.