A spanner hurtled from southern celestial hemispheres, jammed

the gears of the wind up clock, broke it buggered

half past three and entombed Tuesday in ashes,

hours before dawn. The mechanism plundered, morning blight
bludgeoned my skull.  If I could unwind the hands, etched into time’s

moon faced machine, I would have read more poems to you,

a menthol cigarette burning between us wafting alpine,

a citronella candle smoking out mosquitos on the verandah,

River red trees governing the flat lands before us, shedding.

I’d have asked how you learned about Dylan Thomas, and why

you chose to tell me about his poem, “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Goodnight.”

I would have bribed you with cinnamon doughnuts, each day,

to sugar you into passing on what was plaguing

you after we’d listen to him recite it on YouTube.

I would’ve hid the Bulova clock, nicked the Carriage clock,

pawned your Grafton wall clock and never bloody

got it out of hock. Moved your pliers, fractured your magnifying

lenses, smashed every single LED light in Brisbane. Poured synthetic oil down

the passing drain pipes, pleading with you not to go, imploring

you never to go, begging you stay on, and stay flaming put.

But a second ticks from the clock your gentle spirit fixed

aa dawn drags the drapes across another Dad-less day.