An over wound clock tells no time.
It can't even speak to promises
or hope. It is only a historian.
Talk to me of your awkward hands
that didn't know which number
to point to. Tell me the stories
of roman numerals giving
way to western numbers.
I've always loved those crazy
eyed red cat clocks with the
glammed up wagging tails.
Paint me in glitter and
tick tick tick my way.
Old, broken, out of date,
I pay this no heed;
your time is still good here.
Your chime still sings
my melodies.
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