Big hand is Minutes and Short hand is Hours
Both take my time and waste it as I try,
Try as hard as I can to read a clock, It's easy.
Counting by fives, It's one of the rare things I can
Do, but it doesn't match up once I look at the face
Faces confuse me, Blame it on the disability passed down from Mother and Father to Me,
Broken, like the face of a clock
when the frustration gets to me because
This is what seems to define me as a person
That she can't read a clock, She's 17
Can't do basic math or read a map
The minute hand and hour hand closing in a cup around me and the thin
lines around the edge like bars of a prison--
"She can't read a clock".