It smells like burnt toast up here  
and my stomach aches as the day settles below the horizon
I watch the time drip by,
numbers sliding between its uniform coat buttons in increasing augmentations, up and up

what has been done with today?
where has the bright sky and trees’ shadows gone
will this life be spent scratching my head,
pursing lips, counting hours
wishing nausea away
for fear of lost time?