Month of poetry #22: Late for work

For her arrival home,  he Marvin Gayed up:
his own nephew's mixtape, finally useful.
For dinner they would be visiting the flesh,
eating pigs' trotters and scoring each marvel
at its big puce depths of tendoned meat.
Her face, young and old and none of the above
Freckle dusting and overalls like
a grownup Punky Brewster. Denim in a
crumpled heap in the corner, his hands
played over limbs like a hollow bamboo
orbiting an unknown object until she
arced like someone shot her.
Right in front of me, the smiling dead.
Suddenly birds and grey morning light:
a distance between what was and what is.
Clocks showed a time he could not tell.
My wife, I'm going to be late for work.
Her electric fingers pushed back the minute hand.

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Including suggestions from:

@matchtrick: what is clocks?
@JayJayCee1: like a hollow bamboo (song, Bodhi Khalid)
@home_sewn: electric fingers
@spikelynch: orbiting an unknown object (from Wikipedia description of the eclipsing binary star ε Aurigae)
@ReadingSheilas: someone shot her, right in front of me (Orphan Black)
@timsterne: He Marvin Gayed his own nephew (Vito Spatafore, The Sopranos)
@lalscotton: visiting the flesh eating pigs
@ernmalleyscat: marvel at its big puce depths (Vogon Poetry Generator on BBC site)
@attentive: tell my wife I'm going to be late (Peter Ludwigsen, A Hijacking)
@GretaPunch: none of the above
@slimejam: Punky Brewster