Twelve was the number of his pain.
And twelve crusted wrinkles twisted across his face.
Twelve thoughts danced across his brain,
Each of them taking 1-2...seconds apiece.

Twelve of his joints held painful snakes,
And they were wet, boggy with arthritis of age,
Those twelve joints slithered, hissed, and ached.
He moved them 1...2...at a time, but never more.

Twelve hours was just half a day.
And that was the length of his final, empty shift.
Twelve times three was the years he stayed,
On that quiet line performing his quiet trade.

Twelve was now pushing him away,
The twelve times six that was written behind his age.
Twelve was no friend...he was afraid.
Only twelve minutes left before the whistle played.

Twelve breaths...
Twelve beats...
So fast twelve came!
Twelve seconds now.

... 1...2...
The whistle played!
twelve sent him on his way.
Now free to spend twelve times two hours every day.
 
 

John Grace
MS III
Second Place for Poetry