The Timeless Quest for the Stamp of Approval

The clock is an eraser,
making smears out of
the sketches in my mind
and vanishing the
rings from my eyes.
Out of an order
comes the disorder,
and the constant
rotation of pans
keeps me handling
it all. I keep clipping
my fingernails in case
it is important to someone.
I get lost in the music,
the young symphonies
and philharmonics,
and the whistling somewhere.
I stumble through the night
in stark light
and am blasted by the burning
mist of the faucet sprayer,
feeling less and less
as my pants soak unnoticed.
Yet deep down,
where reason sleeps,
I know I'm working hard.