The hour that still rings

A dog can't read a clock, but at five on the dot it's sitting by the bowl. Bodies keep time like that. Certain hours used to come with a guaranteed event, and yours took notes. Say it's ten past three and the day's going fine. Then the wanting clocks in. The hour is the trigger, not your life.

The cigarette took those hours and wrote its name across them in ink. Now the slot rings on its own. You already know your loud hours. Mid morning. The dead one after lunch. The stretch before dinner. The last one before bed. A named hour is a much smaller opponent than a vague afternoon.

This one's ringing now, so answer it with your body. Twenty pushups against the nearest wall. Slow on the way down. Feel your arms warm up and your breathing change. Physical beats clever here. You're giving the hour somewhere else to go. A body that moves at three starts expecting to move at three.

On the last one, add a line. Retrain me, God. One hour at a time. Do the same thing when this minute comes around tomorrow. The repetition that taught the hour can teach it something new. It doesn't need your feelings, only your days. The hour rang, and this time you taught it something.