jr

More poetry. . .
Feedback always welcome.

Clocks
by JR

Grandpa Callahan has a condo in Vermont that is full of clocks.
My favorite, the oak grandfather clock, has a pendulum inside it,

swaying back and forth in a glass shaft, surrounded by tubular chimes, like a long, golden tie
drawn low to the ankles, caught for decades in a mathematical wind of gears and sprockets.

Perched on the mantle, the ceramic Mexican clock waits for one of us, los primos, to break her again.

The kitchen clock, with digits that jump over each other like Rolodex cards,
scurries to the next hour, like yesterday was just a boring magazine.

The wall clock, la casita, with Mexican roosters clawing at it's keyhole,
ticks with a vengence, los gallos furiosos!

Trying to sleep on this antique couch, I count four proud clocks making noise.
Back home, I have four clocks in two rooms and not one of them makes a tick.

They are quieter then sin in an age of robots. Alkaline ghosts,
small red dragons, moving in our sleep, like toys that come to life.