Instant Gratification

I wade the droppings,
a multitude
of problems.
The black phone
rings alarm,
maydaymayday!

I listen politely,
state back facts
as I see them, but
you won’t have it.
You writhe,
I listen,
you whine,
I feign concern.
What more?
Alas, I
cannot warp time.
I know too well
this thing
you think
you want,
this thing
you think
I hold.

I walk to the window,
take out my timepiece,
not to warp time,
nor to check the dial,
but to admire
the intricate scroll
and sailing ship
of the casing.

I am far from
your troubles
with their value
of droppings
from vultures
that forever circle
Pilot Mountain,
which breaches the horizon
lovely, like a woman’s breast.