In a tiny war-torn home
in which 19 people sleep,
there is a clock, in the attic
which the keeper ceased to keep.
Now this clock, it is peculiar.
It’s a simple pocket watch,
but it trembles, and it shakes
each time its two hands touch.
Its pit’s pendulum is
its own suspension spring.
It vibrates each time,
and each time is a slip.
Every time the hands meet,
every time the hands touch,
it attempts to cease tremors
but time is no clutch.
It is now made of anger,
impatience, and bile.
The pit is the pocket,
and the pendulum’s behind.
It annoys all the adults
who tell the children to scatter,
but the clock doesn’t coo-coo
and its struggle has a pattern.
And the clock now knows,
because its been told
that a certain embroidered
cloth, it can hold.
And this new cloth is
of identical thread.
But the clock needs a cover
which it does not detest.
It will not stop shaking
until it is replaced.
For some clocks need
novel rhythm to pace.
E.L.Kross 