You are in your own hour,
one I cannot touch.

It is five a.m. You are going home.

Veins clogged with warm lager,
each thought only lurches

to the next step,
each boot on pavement followed
by its partner, unsteady

but reliable, this dance of two
gentle machines, in a partnership
they do not appreciate.

At midnight, in my parallel
time restrained by numbers,
I stand still, faithful

to the clock, evolving into what
you have, now.

I will reach that hour,
you, too late.