The Clock Without Its Hands
The clock without his hands
Sits moodily on the shelf,
Tired of the speeding world,
Tired of itself;
I sing him songs half forgotten
As if in a dream--
Time bolts past my bolted door,
Inside, just me and him.
He has never woken me
From my morning trance,
He's seen my March and October
Without ticking once;
I have no hopes regarding him
And he is not eager,
I've never washed or dusted him
My father hadn't, either.
The clock without his hands
Sits with his dusty head sunk,
He knows, today at sundown
I will throw him in the junk.
Does he think of heaven
If, for him there's such a land?
Or does he dream of that new life
Where he has both his hands?
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