REGULATOR: love song to an analogue clock
I have such a tick tock
pendulum clock on the kitchen wall.
Though it came with you, I’ve called it mine
(after all, it sat in my lap,
my fat, pregnant belly shielding it from the shock
of a stone paved road, gone to seed)
since it was brought from where you were
to count your. my. our. time.
Like my grandfather’s banjo clock
but older and cheaper,
MADE IN JAPAN
with face of printed paper,
to look like wood,
tiny gilded flowers faded.
A late addition atop it sits:
(India slender not China round)
a small, golden Buddha
from a town just north of BEE. Be. Being. Was.
I’ve grown so accustomed to the sound
I notice it only, when paying attention
Reliable ghost of the town bells,
which ring the mass and the hour / half hour
(though my clock, by choice, does not).
I am like my grandfather these days
(awake at 5 by 9 asleep);
I don’t, like he,
get out a shortwave radio and
listen for Greenwich’s distant beep,
add six to arrive in Central Texas,
then wind and set my clock
on a given day each week.
I can hear the beep on the BBC’s
but I rather look past,
where my clock’s hands have stopped time
on its foxed paper face,
to the prescient clock on the town’s bell tower.
I open the round glass,
open the pendulum case,
remove the dark and heavy, little key,
turn ten times counter clockwise in its given notch,
remove the key and hear the
as it touches the bottom of the case
Not closing it,
I raise my finger and catch
time’s arrow-tipped minute
hand and turn it clockwise until it twins
the tower time.
I try to keep my index fingertip
from touching the foxed paper of the stopped face
not wanting it to scar,
I close the glass
over scissor-like hands and
set the round, bronze
on its slender, stem of lacquered lath.
Check for a tick equidistant from the tock,
close the case and turn the lock.
copyright Bonnie M. Broussard, all rights reserved.