A comic ode to the last‑Friday 8pm Pacific Zoom
Poets kept arriving yesterday,
or possibly tomorrow,
depending on whose clock
had most recently betrayed them.
Someone in Seattle swore it was eight.
Someone in Surrey insisted it was four.
Someone in Sydney said,
“Look, it’s already Saturday,
can we just start?”
Daylight Saving lurked in the corner,
twirling its moustache,
delighted with the havoc:
springing forward like a caffeinated frog,
falling back like a fainting goat,
leaving poets scattered
across the calendar like confetti.
So we staged a tiny revolution.
We threw our hands up,
threw our clocks out,
and pledged allegiance
to the one time that never misbehaves:
UTC ---
the Switzerland of clocks,
the monk who never blinks,
the only adult in the room.
Now the last Friday of the month
unfolds with improbable grace.
8pm Pacific rings out,
and somehow,
despite oceans, equinoxes,
and the general temperament of poets,
we all appear at once.
Some in pyjamas,
some in daylight,
some clutching mugs,
some clutching cats,
but all miraculously on time.
And Daylight Saving,
foiled again,
stomps off muttering,
“I’ll get you next October... or March”