Ode to Clock

Staring game begins, tireless,
you tick-tick at me, even-tempered, nonchalant,
with sterile uniformity.
We all know how your story ends, yet still,
your Second Hand drags his sorry self
from number to number to number to
the aching, stagnant beat.
Monotonous, your Minute Hand mulls over
each notch in your porcelain face,
never allowed the content state of stillness.
Your Hour Hand, grandiose, apathetic,
takes his time, humming under his breath,
unconcerned with my fervent glares as
he lags behind the others.
As once again I settle into the spaces
allotted to you between your numbers,
your features void of empathy,
I feel the comfort you find in your
constant, archaic repetition.