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?