The Bitter Chronometer

High up in the dusty, musty attic,
     a ticking
clock bides her time on a shelf,
     selfishly
counting seconds, minutes, hours,
     our time,
not this clock's to while away,
     a way she
finds revenge for never being wound,
     wounded
by neglect for twenty years,
     all ears
to life below, but never counted on,
     up on
a cobweb-shrouded board,
     bored
from ticking, tocking, chiming,
     mingling
her muted rhythms near the roof.
     Aloof,
those unthinking folk, she mutters,
     shuddering
at the thought of rusting,
     as trusty
as gears of brass might be.
     Maybe
I will tick forever up here,
     one hears
her say, though her hands are seized,
     diseased
from grease worn free, minute's metal
     meddling
with hour's, never turning,
     returning
the same monochronous noonday time
     to chime
lunchtime for mice, spiders, flies.

Scott Speck
05/03/2002