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Into Overtime

I do not want an expensive watch. My time
Is far too precious to me to be tracked and
Hacked to slivers on the face of such a
Thing, and I'm not much for trappings of
A life I don't, and wouldn't, lead. You've
Seen me, love. You call me shabby. Once,
You said, 'bohemian, ' but now, it seems,
You chafe at being tethered to a dowdy
Clod, who rushes home from work each
Day to pour a drink and agonize for words
To put on his computer. You, in clothes
And make-up close to dearer than all
That I own, insist I dress, so we can eat,
But I have spuds and sausage in the
Kitchen. What more would I need?
You fume. I see it in your face, and in
Your tapping, polished nails, and, though
I neither have a watch nor want one, I've
Become aware the hours are growing short
For you and me.

poem by Lawrence Beck
Added by Poetry Lover
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