Antiques

I go about my daily tasks that are necessary to keep a household humming along smoothly like the works of the antique clock on my dresser over a century and a quarter old The little teeth of the gears interlocking spinning, turning to keep accurate time Springs wound taut with a small key The weighted pendulum swinging to and fro like a metronome in a regular rhythm Its charming chime marking the time at the top of every hour I unload the clean clothes from the dryer They’re still warm and soothing on my skin Warm as my heart that beats within my breast with love to be shared with someone special Yet I’ve found no one that wants it or who passes my purity test I’ve devised to screen out the users, abusers and boorish brutes Waiting for a gentleman to come and claim it As rare these days as my clock and the Victrola that I now walk by as I carry the basket of laundry across the room to tote it up the stairs It still works as well as the day it was first sold in 1922 I paid less for it than its original owner way back then It had been stored away in a basement forgotten and unused under a blanket in almost mint condition The small bronze key to open the top accompanied it along with albums I later added to from auctions or dusty bins in the back of antique shops, flea market finds Turn the crank until the spring is tight Put a shellac 78 RPM record on to spin then place the needle upon it to hear the music and voices of those who have long ago passed away who for those few minutes are alive once again I picture them standing in front of a big band in a ballroom I have no partner so I dance alone as they croon their tunes My favorite to play is Al Bowlly, The Very Thought of You though I know no one is thinking of me Certainly not him as he died during World War Two killed by a bomb in the Blitz Blown from his bed in his flat after he’d returned on the train to London after a show, no clue he had sang his last song I place the basket upon my bed where I sleep each night alone and fold the shirts and the sheets, match up the socks with their mates returning them to their proper places in the closet and the drawers of the dresser upon which my clock rests I realize its tick-tock has stopped so I wind it once again If someone cares for them as no one has me my clock, my Victrola as they did for decades before my birth will continue their functions after mine have failed long after I have ceased to be