A Grandfather Clock Speaks Poem by Glenn Bagshaw

I count my own days down
with a rusty mainspring
and not much else.

Not too good, not good.
No, the time's not well.
Grandson's quartz is sheer miracle.
Unfair, not fair, a crock, o'clock
fob him off, set him off
slime him with oil-
for I'm untimely dated,
stem-stopped, unwound.

Yet when I watch
young Sally Seiko,
her rounded, say hour-glass ways,
her graceful face of dial-
why whether AM or PM
I simply start to sound.

I talk: tick, tock, tick;
Tick, tock; tick, tock;
alarmed, alarmed,
my arms, her charms
brings BONG, tick; BONG, tock;
brings BONG, BONG, BONG.