“Not one of the clocks I own appear to work.”

It’s an assumption, written, that I claim.

Their cogs and wheels fail, each by obscure quirk

I’d think it unfair to shoulder the blame.

Their hands are each present, and yet none move;

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Decorations on boards with no function.

Assignments labored, but what can I do

When professors deny the malfunction.

I’ve panicked. Slaved. Done writing for hours.

(I started after the draft became due.)

Written a sonnet, it’s about flowers,

And every claim since spoken is true.

But now it’s too late. I’ve failed to submit.

And now none will read this poem I've writ.