You can count it
and take it
and save it
all you want, but
time
will never quite
add up to anything;
its hands
cannot satisfy—
its fabric,
is not flattering.
In fact, it's basically
a spool
of super-sheer organza
which you'll cut-up
and drape
and make your tasteless
clothes from—
then parade in
up and down your skinny
life, like it's a catwalk—
pretending
you look great;
pretending
that it fits right;
pretending
it conceals
one single
inch of all
you're wrong about.
