11 of 68

by Linda Armstrong

My first alarm
clock had numbers
coated with phosphorous.
Like stars on a bedroom
ceiling, they glowed
in the middle of the night
when my sister
was tucked in
on her always-neat
side of the room
and I worried
about the boy
who did not
like me, or the test
I was afraid
I would not pass.
Before first light,
it would rattle
its shocking warning,
and, eyes still closed,
I grabbed it,
avoiding the broken
crystal and punched
the knob on its back,
angry and grateful
at once for its service.
Today, I avoid all alarms,
even though the
clock on my bedside
offers soft music.
I do not worry
about boys
or tests.
In fact,
I no longer
have time
for time.

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Poetry: Alarm clocks

by Linda Armstrong

Poetry: Alarm clocks

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