Off by Five

The microwave says 3:47.

My phone says 3:52.

Five minutes. Not enough to fight,

not enough to fix what I've let slide right.

Not enough to make me reach up

and reset the display burning in the dark,

blue numbers slightly too bright,

marking time like a small remark.

I could press the buttons. I have hands.

Instead I check my phone again.

Instead I stand here, understand

that some problems stay when

you can't fix them, when you don't try,

when you've made peace with the lie,

when you live with two different times nearby

and neither one makes you cry.

It's not about the clock.

The therapist would know that.

But the clock is easier. A small lock

on something I won't relax.

Five minutes behind.

Five minutes ahead.

Five minutes of my life I'll never find,

caught between what I said and what I meant instead.