Sometime between morning and midnight,
The day uncoils like a stretched-out spring
And those twenty-four neat, little hours I asked for
Drift and blur into twenty-five...
Sands through my fingertips.
You've heard it all before.

If The Thinker had been sculpted
With two hands propping up his chin,
He'd have been called The Worrier,
And the mysteries of his stony mind
Wouldn't seem nearly so perplexing.
I'm palling around with a burnt-out light bulb,
A dripping faucet and a peanut-butter sandwich,
Worrying about why my thoughts don't rhyme.