Impersonal Time

by Glen Martin Fitch

There's solitaire or
shooting hoops alone,
the chocolate box and book,
brew marathon with popcorn troth
and endless football on,
or wine by candle light
to set the tone.
At night when pie is calling
who has pride?
Some check while sober
if their fingers shake,
their face is swollen,
head or liver ache.
Your time-release,
progressive suicide?
With intrigue, porn,
we stretch erotic bliss.
If you want blindness
simply chug and chug.
We gorge on sugar, salt,
test doses and drug.
Get off! Get on! Get out!
It comes to this:
We fear true joy,
oblivion, or thrill.
It's not ourselves,
it's time we seek to kill.


Glen Martin Fitch's picture

Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."

Last updated August 23, 2011