Only More Time Can Fix Me Now

The foot of the table rose up to adjust the shape of my chin. It was a glooming, looming 3 a.m. when I saw the bedside clock through that pitch dark that occurs at the back of an eye when time is a few decades too slow. The table has put itself together once more, bought from IKEA, it took two days to assemble, and a lifetime to disassemble. Now it's just a lightless prop for a drooling jaw. My dad is here offering advice, when he was alive, he made televisions out of the spare parts of alien spacecraft. I have no such skills, yet I know that time occasionally stands at the edge of a cliff photographing my fleeting existence, as if it were a Dodo straining to remember how to fly. In a distance beyond my ken, table feet clip-clop away.