The Same Old Riddle

We keep trying to kill it, split it, hack

It to itsy bits. We suspend it

On the wall where we can see it

Passing. We hang it around our necks

Or wrists, laying pulse next to

Pulse as if each might like

Company. Ba-bump, etc. Rising

And setting has everything to do

With it. In the afternoon we feel so

Lazy we try not to close our eyes

And jerk awake, wondering what has

Passed, and where did we go

For that suspended hour,

And could anything keep us here.