when i check the time

by Grady VanWright

the clock morphs--

its hands tangled like serpents,

I see it. Eyes falter; they are green now,

rolling down the stairs like marbles--

the stairs I have never known.

The nurses circle in bird masks,

fanning feathers against the cold,

blinking in slow rhythm. "They are nothing--"

I know it--

"more than pigeons," I say, then forget again.

At the window, there's that horse--

brass mane, buckling hooves on asphalt,

pulling a chariot of broken lights--

"Ah, but the war's been done," I murmur,

though the horns still blare.

They should be simple taxis.

In the mirror, a stranger with a hollow face

mumbles about markets--copper, salt,

the weight of words--but he

falters at the syllables.

I nod along as he speaks of coins

that melt between fingers--

a bank of bees, buzzing,

honey sinking into my skin,

but it sticks, it stings.

I know the hive's not real.

I fold the sky between my hands,

tucking the edges like a blanket,

but the clouds--

they twist into soldiers, into lions.

There's laughter. "It's absurd," I think,

the king of rain sits on a wicker throne,

a crown of thistles turning to fire.

His voice crackles like old vinyl,

"None of this, none of it, is true."

I want to agree,

but there's the clock again, slithering.

Image of Grady VanWright

BIO: Grady VanWright is a poet, author, and playwright whose work blends introspection, independence, and the surreal edges of the human condition. Based in Houston, Texas, he has been writing and reading poetry for over 25 years, drawing inspiration from a lifetime of experiences and historical fascinations. His work has been published in Washington Square Review (2025), The McNeese Review, Oddball Magazine, and numerous online literary journals. With a distinctive voice that merges stream-of-consciousness with moderate surrealism, Grady continues to craft evocative narratives that challenge perception and invite contemplation.