Poem by Francis Santaquilani
Never by gold or silver hands
On a black face, or bonging
Menacingly from a tower
In some foreign place.
Certainly never digitaly flashing
From a VCR, mircrowave 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, phospheresent
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 cookoo 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.
Are there, if you care.
Thin and suspended,
Secondary to what passes
Through and by its face.
Blowing leaves, swirling snow, cars,
Birds, walkers, children, the mailman,
Bicyclists, funeral processions.
The morning's first bright sun,
Sliced thin by vertical blinds,
Projected onto the hardwood floor
Through its glass face.
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