Clocks

What slips away while listening to clocks
Is not the time, and not the life that's left,
But peace of mind. The ticking minute mocks
The hours that it builds, as is some jest
Unknown to us were always being told
Just as the hand ticks over, and the chime
Were just a jut of laughter. It is cold,
That laughter, and it takes up precious time
Spent listening for jokes we may have missed,
And wondering what second hands might know
That we do not. Such secrets must exist,
Or else why would a minute always stow
Those sixty seconds in itself? The tick
Of seconds passing seems a dirty trick.