By Peter Neil Carroll
November 2, 2020
Tomorrow brings the decisive election,
but already it’s two days since we turned
back the clocks, as if we could stop
the future. My two grandsons, aged 2 and 4,
too young to understand the power of clocks
have revolted, yelling themselves awake
at the crack of dawn, their parents wrecked
by a premature sunrise, what farmers once
complained was not in god’s time. I had
a friend who named his Spaniel “Time”
but could never teach it to sit or to heel,
a wise creature who lived in dog years
to a ripe age. How hard we struggle
to diminish the darkness, a futility the children
haven’t yet learned, though with or without
god they will in time. Changing the hour
in October often gave me 25-hour birthdays,
extra moments to make a fool of myself,
and maybe why politicians extended fake time
by a week. That will not help anyone tomorrow.
In former times, the polls spoke for themselves,
now microcosmic experts predict for months,
county by county, foreboding a climax
of excitement and dread. Politics has become
the nation’s most treacherous autumn sport.
Sleep tight now boys, don’t let the night bugs
bite. Tomorrow we’ll visit your future.
Peter Neil Carroll’s latest collection of poetry, Something is Bound to Break, (Main Street Rag Press) appeared last year. Earlier titles include Fracking Dakota; and A Child Turns Back to Wave which won the Prize Americana. His poems have appeared in many print and online journals. He is also the author of a memoir, Keeping Time (Georgia).