This moment will not last. See, already past
and another moment, come and gone. See that! Flown.
Another one’s gone, too, and you hardly missed it — until youth fled.
Perceiving moments in time requires watching
And knowing the big hand from the little hand.
And what of the millisecond, microsecond, nanosecond,
picosecond et cetera ad infinitum?
If I knew nothing of number and language: abstractions,
my day would be a dog’s day — marked by bowls clanking to the floor,
full and empty, empty and full — per what? Per care from hands that feed?
Or scavenge and quarry per what? Chance.
If I had no watch, there’d still be routine and random, fear and hope and panic,
passings told by no per what I’d know. What of repetition?
Or when called for dinner or bedtime, variety synched with event?
Who’d know — perhaps sun, moon, stars et cetera. Regularity?
Would menses be discrete or by moon? The moon one, permanent.
The sun one, permanent — both per sight, day and night? But regular?
Who’d know? What’s the interval?
Would I know perseverance? Yes, by drive: to eat, to sleep, to cover —luck and duck.
Look out for low-hanging birdhouses. Keep your eyes open. Watch your footfalls.
Shit in the grass! Be wary. Why? Just keep your wits, son.
So why worry? Would I like a dog’s life?