24 Hours Poem by Irene Bitter

24 hours in a day,
Where do they go?
Where do they slip?

Perhaps into a time keeper's glass of wine,
Or mug of beer,
And, will we ever get them back?
Doubt it,
Unless, H.G. Wells arrives here
In a time machine he built.

Therefore, don't let anyone steal a second
Of your precious day,
Somedays you need to tell them
"Back off!
You're standing on my oxygen tank
And blocking my airway! "

Before you know it,
it's death o'clock!
Time to hit the coffin
In a cold, dusty grave!

Only 24 short hours,
Don't let them slip away!