Daylight Savings Time (I Didn't Need a Bureaucrat for That)

Autumn poetry continues to rear its head.

Who can change
time here on earth
or in the Universe?
Why does the Bureau
of Weights and Measures
decide it ought to grab
my circadian rhythm
and spin it around
like a cop directing
traffic at one of those busy
intersections? I’m already
spinning most days—dizzy
as I direct impossibilities
on my own block,
problems and dilemmas 
and love and labor
and girls and women
who steal my heart
at unexpected hours,
on unexpected streets.
It’s always an unexpected
hour and I’m forced
to look at my watch
to count the lonely
minutes that go by
like centuries
or lifetimes
or endless highways 
with a single car,
a solitary driver.
I dreamed of you at 2AM—
right around the time
when clocks and computers
make the fateful jump
and force me to repeat
November’s silent moment.
Can you relive an hour?
An extra hour to remember
that you’ll never love me.
I didn’t need a bureaucrat 
for that. “An extra hour
of sleep” is what you say,
but I’m counting sheep
and toothpicks and owls
in hickory trees—lucid
repetition and a faulty
memory as I try 
with frantic,
graceless strength
to imagine your face
in a peaceful slumber
since I’ll never hear
you breathe
into the soft pillow
of your dreams—never
watch your eyes flicker
in hushed moonlight
or marvel with you
at spooky shadows
of the past through 
an open window 
while the owl hoots
to celebrate the night
once more—
while the yellow 
leaves of the hickory 
tree hiss and
crackle in the 
soundless breeze.
Are you awake
right now
and wondering
at what the
darkness holds?
Did you look
at your clock
or consider me
at all?
Was my name
on your lips
before you
set your watch? 
Will you speak
to the owl
about me
and heed
the advice
it gives you
in every dream?
Can our dreams
be the same
in a Universe
so wide?
Were you there
when I said
I love you?
Did I hold your
hand at a minute
before two?