Adjusting

The note under the clock says THIS IS WRONG,

blue ballpoint, one edge curled.

It's been there long enough the tape went clear.

The clock is three minutes fast. The world

keeps moving. I subtract three minutes now

without deciding to. Every day

the wrong time on the wall, the note beneath it,

and me just doing the math. Okay.

Nobody fixed it. Nobody reached up,

took it down, set it right, rehung the thing.

We all just looked and looked away and looked

and learned to carry that small reckoning.

Two years I've eaten lunch in this break room.

Three minutes fast. The note says it's wrong.

I subtract. I finish eating. I go back.

I've been adjusting for so long.