At this time of day

At this time of day what matters?
There are no bells to ring
to tell us where to go next
and what to do
and how to do it.

At this time of day where are we?
We are lost like children in a fairy tale woods,
like astronauts cut off from the mothership

At this time of day the exhaust fumes overwhelm us.
We are bereft of direction,
sick to the eyes, blind as blackened smoke

At this time of day what matters?
The clock going backwards?
The man in the pub feeling drunk?
The edge of space spinning inwards,
as we all pray for the bells to ring.