When Time Ran Out, I Took the Clock In

Where ebony-hued hands marked time,

predictably for years, a dwelling's rhythmic core,

a tranquil, rounded void. Its golden countenance

had dulled, like our whirling dance of optimism

against life's pull, within the muted tolls —

no flight, no plea, a generation, or a few,

passing in moments. We'd long since

ceased clutching time as a captive between us,

releasing the ancient betrayals —

all we relied on to vanquish that colossal weight of memories

to which we finally yield

as hush envelops my mother's living room

like a vessel filled with longing,

devoid of tea. In my longing

to make amends, I embraced the clock.

Regrettable news, horologists exclaimed —

vintage components are scarce to find

and skilled hands for restoration are scarce. Quoted a price

that astonished me, then proposed

that it was fine to cherish it in its stillness.

I positioned the slate-encased clock up high

enough to elevate my gaze,

like a child seeking ethereal beings in reverie.