um, I found better ones…

The Clock on the Morning Lenape Building
Must clocks be circles?
Time is not a circle.
Suppose the Mother of All Minutes started
Right here, on the sidewalk
In front of the Morning Lenape Building, and the parade
Of minutes that followed—each of them, say, one inch long—
Headed out that way, down Bridge Street.
Where would Now be? This minute?
Out past the moon?
Jupiter?
The nearest star?
 
Who came up with minutes, anyway?
Who needs them?
Name one good thing a minute’s ever done.
They shorten fun and measure misery.
Get rid of them, I say.
Down with minutes!
And while you’re at it—take hours
With you too. Don’t get me started
On them.
 
Clocks—that’s the problem.
Every clock is a nest of minutes and hours.
Clocks strap us into their shape.
Instead of heading for the nearest star, all we do
Is corkscrew.
Clocks lock us into minutes, make Ferris wheel
Riders of us all, lug us round and round
From number to number,
Dice the time of our lives into tiny bits
Until the bits are all we know
And the only question we care to ask is
“What time is it?”
 
As if minutes could tell.
As if Arnold could lock up at this clock on
The Lenape Building and read:
15 minutes till Found.
As if Charlie’s time is not forever stuck
On Half Past Grace.
As if a swarm of stinging minutes waits for Betty Lou
To step outside.
As if love does not tell all the time the Huffelmeyers
Need to know.
 
 
… Susan Julia Pocket Mouse Mudpie Hullygully Stargirl Caraway 101. She dreams a lot. She dreams of Ondines and falling maidens and houses burning in the night. But search her dreams all you like and you’ll never find Prince Charming. No Knight on a White Horse gallops into her dreams to carry her away. When she dreams of love, she dreams of smashed potatoes. She loves smashed potatoes, and she dreams that she and Starboy are eating smashed potatoes, possibly on a blanket at a deserted beach, and as Starboy digs in for another scoopful, he drops the spoon and his mouth falls open (showing some smashed potato goop, but she finds it cute), and he looks at her in a way she’s never been looked at before—he sees her!—and she can practically see the words boiling up inside him—they’re unstoppable!—and here they come, gushing over the smashed potatoes: “I love you, Stargirl! I love you, Stargirl!”—like a cereus blooming not once but over and over a thousand times in a single night.