Digital Clocks: A Diatribe

I breathe success like the fumes,

Of perfumed nicotine;

Snatch celebrity from the stingy clutches

Of time stretched thin with caffeine.

My breaths sting my lungs as the numbers

Change on the digital clock by my bed;

My frozen fingers itch to type as the to-do list crumbles

And anxiety woos procrastination on my bedspread.

I’m racing against the clock,

To outrun the dread of insignificance;

Always a second too late for the class –

Of Time, who kills all her pupils by the end.