Off the Clock

The email came through at five past three,

a three-word sentence that set me free.

The meeting was scrubbed, the calendar clear,

and suddenly no one expected me near.

I sat in the car in the back of the lot,

in a pocket of quiet that the day had forgot.

I watched a black crow pull a bag from the bin,

while the dashboard clock hummed its digital tin.

No phone on my lap, no files on the seat,

just sixty whole minutes of staying discrete.

An hour is heavy when it's yours to just hold,

without being bartered or broken or sold.

I leaned back the headrest and looked at the sky,

and watched the slow transit of clouds moving by.

It felt like a heist, or a secret I’d found,

to be perfectly still while the world made its sound.