Passengers

By Edwin José Vega Ramos via Pexels

if minutes were passengers
to the hands of the clock
swathed in leather
with mittens of suede

would they feel the burden
of their own dalliance
the implanted expectations
that should come with bringing

each holiday and celebration
and note of mourning and
coiled anxiety primed to spring
schedules of human consequence

or would it be
just another facet
of seconds rejoiced and refuted
like pearly moon crescents

staining fountain plumes
rose and lemon tangerine
the bright pallet of a wistful dawn
the muted hiss of a fleeting moon

colliding as they go
to no place with meaning
strapped loose to their backs
withheld in its fleeing