My Son, the Clock

Catherine Cimillo Cavallone

My son is a clock,
sitting at the edge of the mantel
of my life.
His face, beveled by the sun,
glinting with joy,
a boy
with a strong base,
legs of cabriole and
gilt eyelashes, blinking off the hours.
Lips an intricate burl
onto rosewood inlay mouth
of pearl.
Hair of chestnut filigree-
a veneer always outshining
But his movement
rusted inside of me or perhaps
God forgot a spring…
his second-hand lags-
his bim-bam off,
not like other clocks-
a constant effort to keep
the pendulum swaying-
A veritable army now,
of horologists keeping him
tick-tocking speciously.

There is no place in this world
for rusted movements.

So there he sits,
broken boy-clock ornament…

Will he slip off mantel’s edge
or wind himself up like the rest of us?

Only time can tell.



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