I bet our windable timepiece
sits on a shelf in the hospital ward
of broken hands and busted lives
in the same poorly lit room
with boxes of arms and legs
and faces of those that
didn’t survive surgery
that clock shop is the clock man’s ER
and morgue and holder of dreams
for every clock who
ever wanted to be Big Ben
ours only needed a key to set time
and surely he said he’d find one
among the bones of another clock
but one year later
with one excuse after another
and the ping of pendulums
and bells counting hours
in the background silence
perhaps like the race car driver
addicted to speed this fixer of
clocks has so much time on his hands
he can’t help being slow
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