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Clocks

Rating: 5.0

HERE is a face that says half-past seven the same way whether a murder or a wedding goes on, whether a funeral or a picnic crowd passes.
A tall one I know at the end of a hallway broods in shadows and is watching booze eat out the insides of the man of the house; it has seen five hopes go in five years: one woman, one child, and three dreams.
A little one carried in a leather box by an actress rides with her to hotels and is under her pillow in a sleeping-car between one-night stands.
One hoists a phiz over a railroad station; it points numbers to people a quarter-mile away who believe it when other clocks fail.
And of course ... there are wrist watches over the pulses of airmen eager to go to France...

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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Michael Walker 23 February 2020

Some random, wandering thoughts about clocks and watches-very successful I think.

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M Asim Nehal 09 August 2016

Very interesting poem, Thanks for sharing.

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