Gary F. Iorio

The clock on my desk says,
“2, 3, 4.”
If I wait fifty-six seconds I will
see, “2:34 56.” Digital. You only knew
a place of
Big Hands. . . Little Hands.

Later, the ancient guy at the post office says,
“Next December we’re gonna write 12/12/12 all day;
gonna be a Wednesday.”

The shadows are long and I close all
my western-facing-blinds and I’m glad
to see
my milk is good until 01/18/12.
I have time.