The clock decayed
as time ticked each second forward.
A gear lost a molecule or two
that fell to the bottom of the case.
A dusty detritus that must be
periodically cleaned out.
Like skin sloughed off the body
disappeared into the carpet or grass.
The laughing children ran counterclockwise
trying to unwind time for grandpa Stephenson.
But his ghastly deformities held sway
discontent with black & white youthful photos.
Death came for my clock in its finality
unable to discern A.M. from P.M.
Hours from Seconds.
Ticks from tocks.
copyright © 2023 Kenneth P. Gurney
Umflop 