Midnight, and the clock’s
patient face watches
my weary pace
saving alarm for dawn
The hour of One in the dark
Time giving morning a spark
to open a door or slam it shut
to think a plan – only One
The cruelty of calling it
a Banjo clock
when it does nothing musical
save keep time
Your touch is cold, predictable
you’ll never change
I can’t love you, said the numbers
to hands on the clock
Hour glass looks up at moon
flirting, slowly sifting sands
through her tiny waist.
-0-
Dedicated to Quirina (@denfemte)
Love this! The second stanza is just superb!
Yo, M! ….and that was the stanza that was most difficult to execute. Goodo! Thanks so much for the read and wowie comment!
I think this is a lovely poem, Jackie, with a very sexy ending. Thank you so much for dedicating it to me. I feel very honoured, my dear friend Jackie. Love, Q x
You would not let me trash the poem, Q, so now it’s yours! Glad you like it. Cheers!
The second stanza, the twin-pronged fork of the usage of One, and the catalyst for options…nicely put. Although the banjo surely has some music left, albeit the regular beat of a heart.
All these timing devices….I like the stories you give them.
Brian, that second stanza was the most difficult to execute; so I’m particularly grateful for your appreciation of that. Thank you much for the read and sensitive comment!
There is so much that is good here–but it feels like several poems squeezed into one. Let the lines breathe and open them out:) x
Yeah, well, tis why I call it RANDOM clocking…but I hear you! Thanks, again!