By Maya J. Carter
I wish I could adequately cite the poet that I heard one evening in a poetry reading cafe in college. Every once in awhile, I think of his poem that relayed the story of a young boy who watched the time tick away while awaiting the arrival of an ambulance as his father lay dying on the floor. His repetitive refrain went something like this: “9:15 read the bedroom clock, and it ticked and it tocked, and it ticked and it tocked.” It was a haunting refrain, as we knew the child grew more and more desperate for help as each hour slowly went by.