Member Poem

A watch ticks
in frantic metre
in sagging pocket
as I seem to sense
an unfolding plot
or even limp plod
nothing quite counts
when time filtered
reckoner a flop of
passage without firm
compass or point
witness to a witless
whimsy as figures
gather but for what
purpose yet one
gleans this focus
against the hour
minute a minutiae
smiles indicate upshot
closer to a shapeless
triumph’s game intrinsic,
shape assuming form
count down to whatever