From left to right and back again they swing:
The golden disks, the pendulums depended.
Indifferent to those who onward tread,
They click in perfect time, in time unending.
At three o’clock I hear them start to sing,
Which breaks their spell; for them, I’m sure it’s splendid.
I look back up to find the rest have fled,
While I, like most, remain in text extending.
The building closes far before I’m ready—
What would have been a pleasant afternoon
Has bent to feed the fallen hopes so costly.
While hours stretch to fill the finite queue,
Unanswered are the questions posed before me:
My work remains in blinking cursors blue.