The clocks are weird today.
Off by a minute, missed by a mile.
The leering face of the minute hand 
staring down at seats meant
to mold the mind
in perfect concentric circles,
a target waiting to be shot with,
what? A gun.
Trying to land a hit, a bullseye 
if your succsesful. That perfectly
​molded mind.
Painted cement only a thick 
disguise to cover the jailers office,
trying to make the uninviting 
somehow just a little more attractive.
Tortured by the hour hand,
we wait, one year, the next.
To dream of endless cook outs 
and fourth of July freedoms,
when you, finally, break away 
from the clock.