I think of how he lays in his bed all day
long listening to the ticks from more than
a hundred clocks of all shapes and sizes.
Does someone still wind them each week?
Did some get sold when times got tough?
I wonder if he remembers the auctions,
antique shops and fine furniture galleries.
I think about them chiming on the hour,
half hour, at a quarter of and fifteen after.
All were off a minute or two, never in sync
a good thing for the neighbors and anyone
visiting during the holidays or special dinners.
Strange, his obsession with clocks and time
now holds him prisoner. And after all that
happened, I truly hope he’s at peace when
he hears those sixteen notes and strike for
each hour from his prized Grandfather clock.