Ticking Away

Ticking Away

He talked to himself in the library,

twisting his hands,

mumbling under his breath.

Standing beneath a small window

placed too high,

he could see nothing but a piece of sky.

Every now and again

he would turn toward the magazines

before looking once again at the clouds,

whispering to himself and running his stained fingers

through limp, unwashed hair.

A women with her head bent down

intent on studying, gazed at him annoyingly,

breathing out an irritated sigh,

tapping her pencil on the table sharply.

He did not turn around,

continuing his own conversation,

deep in a world she could not touch.

Another woman walked over to him

just as disheveled, and tugged at his sleeve,

insistant that he come with her.

"The bus, the bus is here," she said,

speaking with urgency,  pulling him roughly,

her voice growing louder.

"The clock is ticking," he said

"It is ticking away..."

Angela Minard 2012©