Merry Go Round

I am
so
disinterested

in over under
estimation
of
each and every
second second
that fills the clock

with hands
always
pointing, pointing
in the usual
round-a-bout way

a merry-go-round
of
ferocious figures
carved in black
that loom
on the fringe
as if held there
by
centrifugal force

vacant forms
in motionless
slow-motion

I am
standing, staring
watching, waiting

forever and always

while in turn
they turn
outstretched

I am
motionless

held there
by
centrifugal force
on the fringe
of a merry-go-round

And I am
always
one tick away