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Wednesday, February 11, 2015


Every time I wind the old clock
I can hear the springs catch in protest
Each catch and release felt through the ears of the silver key
Turned with the old familiar ratcheting sound
Tighter and tighter
Until I feel that it's right at last
Or at least to the point where the spring will unwind for the week

Two holes for the winding key
One for the timekeeping itself
And the other for the sound of the bell
Four tuned rods in this case
Trimmed to different lengths
To give a poor man's version of the Westminster salute
Abbreviated and slightly off key
But recognizable
Giving a little dignity to the old crap house

Stowing the key in its clip at the bottom of the case
One finger gets the pendulum swinging gently
Marking out the seconds in halves
The two curved claws at the top of the shaft working in rhythm

One side releases
The other one catches
Over and over again
Allowing a round toothed gear to go its merry way
One halting step at a time
Transmitting movement through the works
Marking the progress around the face
With arms and hands of tapered grace
And horror movie ticks and tocks

Inspiring no more unease in me however
Than the simple realization that the only problem that really matters in the end

Is the equation of time