Her Grandfather Clock

It commanded a corner in her marble hall,
lording over mahogany tops
and crystal bowls of Faberge—a maitre de to the past,
ominous with narrow glass door encasing the heart of the matter.

No pendulum to slice away time.
No blade honing life to the second.
This gent wore its elegant mechanics
embraced within its chest as counterweight

and upon the gilded face, etched in arabesque numerology
a bygone grace,
the same sculpted into every inch of grain—
head to toe, a stoic Cicero delivering minutes to a senate.

So very like her own father—
timepiece tocking out the efficacy of punctuality,
Bildad to the birds chirping at his feet
for the crumbs of even some congeniality.

He’s gone, but that ruined tomb still stands,
with hands quiet across the ages
and the weight of its unmoving heart suspended
in the dark cavity of a dusty box.

It was the last of its kind in a long line of clocks.
Would that it could have endured prosperity
and the adversity of time
with more fortitude.

Time marches up to us all in the end,
catching us in stride
with little regard for elegance
or the presence of its own stately messenger.