Time Interview with a Bomb Detonator
by Michael Brett

The grandfather clock on the landing says
The house is Fourteenth Century and I am Sixteenth,
But listen to my pendulum still slicing
Time to shreds.

Physicists say Time as a flow is a kind of illusion,
Rather Time is a kind of map,
But they are not paid by the hour
Nor am I. My grandfatherly bedtime tread
Is remembered from childhood; the creak
And lift; the catch of breath upon arrival.

Now I am as modern as you, my boy.
I have sloughed my clockwork and my weights
For this Malevich square
In the bottom of your suitcase.

Death my familiar paces the edges of your map,
My kingdom; copies my tread. He checks your passport
Between his Michaelangelo fingers of God and Adam
About to touch.

Look out of the window.
That man dodging between the cars and traffic.
Imagine if he died now
How every last word, even details of his breakfast
Would be significant. I too am King Midas
Transforming small men, small things to gold
With a spark, a little touch, a kiss.

Copyright © 2013 - Michael Brett
Published: 8/22/13   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem