Had his days not been numbered,
he would have examined grassblades
to see their finer textures and
their distracting sandflakelets.
One day he might have turned over
when the alarm buzz-buzz-buzzed
instead of eating toothpaste
and drinking newspaper headlines.
Yesterday he would have thought
of the day before and pondered
whether tomorrow would be similar
to Tuesday next week. Or not.
Or perhaps he would not have had
a concept of time. His watch
would have been a music box
and his timetable a beermat.
But. His days are numbered. And so.
He is late. And must run.