Six O'Clock

There is a time warp every morning right around six o'clock. For more than an instant or two time just freezes. The second hand on the clock, suddenly silent, refuses to tip downwards on its six o'clock plunge, as does the minute hand. They both stand there in mock alliance, proud of the domineering position they have over the hour hand which--although the sun has already zoomed predictably into the trustworthy eastern sky--is at its gloomiest position of the day. Hanging downward,  the blood nearly dripping into its flushed face and pouring out of its eye sockets, the hour hand understands its real position, like a puppet in a political farce. He is the one everyone notices. Just about every woman and man on the planet keeps faith and time by the hour hand. And yet it is utterly and hopelessly dominated by the minute hand, who in turn is ruthlessly controlled by the second hand. Mere seconds! cries the hour hand. Yet he is hopelessly dependent on his misanthropic companion's willingness to carry on. In this prolonged minute the hour hand hangs down there helplessly, his hard heart pounding with humiliation, pining for the moment when, once again, he can begin the slow manipulated rise into his circle of influence.