Author: Francis Santaquilani
Never by gold or silver hands
On a black face, or bonging
Menacingly from a tower
In some foreign place.
Certainly never digitally flashing
From a VCR, microwave oven,
Bank sign or anything else.
No chasing the second hand across a stark white face
While killing time in a cubicled space.
Never from the top right corner
Of a computer monitor while
Stiff-necked and numbed
By the keyboard's clatter.
Never bejeweled or phosphorescent
Never from my wrist, or any other wrist,
Hanging from a chain
Or from a stranger's lips.
No grandfather clocks,
Mickey Mouse watches, hour glasses,
Punch clocks, alarm or cuckoo clocks.
But only from this quartz clock,
With its glass face rimmed in gold,
And its gears exposed,
Is true time told.
Always in the right place,
Set on freshly dusted and polished wood
In front of the wide living room window.
The numbers are there, if you care,
Thin and suspended,
Secondary to what passes through and by it's face.
Blowing leaves, swirling snow, cars,
Birds, walkers, children, bicyclists, the mailman,
The morning's first bright sun,
Sliced thin by vertical blinds,
Projected onto the hardwood floor
Through its glass face.
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