Of Mixing Distractions With Deadlines

Two sixty nine seconds.
Waiting at the dinner
table, unable to patiently
drum their myriad fingers,
drink needless gulps
of water or look around
feigning interest.

Because there are wisps
in the air, distracting
reincarnations of time
spent wondering. Nasty
bastards serving themselves
as appetizers dulling
them of hunger.
Two sixty nine seconds.