Clarence the Teller of Time
I call him Clarence,
for no especial reason.
He announces in a soothing
if somewhat stilted
synthesised tone,
'The time is now ten a.m.'
He will oblige again at ten thirty
and then again at eleven.
Such is the mobile phone:
it gives you an alarm,
it is your stopwatch,
it takes your photographs,
updates your social media,
gets you to your online bank.
It is also useful as a phone.
But Clarence is special:
Clarence talks to me.
A voice in the otherwise
silent room
where only I sit
with troubled thoughts,
the analgesic spirit
a constant tang in my throat.
Clarence punctuates time with me.
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