February 24, 2002

The Clocktower

By George K. George

Hands diverge twenty-four times a day

On the outside of the clock tower

Wherein I've been locked for countless days,

And on the land I've forgotten, chimes bay

Sixty-two times as the face glowers.

The steep, crumbling staircase leads down

To chambers and halls used as a dump,

And upward where my boots often pound

Under the clock room's trapdoor I found.

There I fall twelve flights each time I jump.

Bruises and scrapes do not help my sleep,

Though chimes are mute on the bottom stair.

How I huddle in absence of heat!

But with plenty rat poison to eat,

I dream of the clock room high up there.

I'd not comprehend that mass of gears:

Grinding no end throughout existence,

Sounding twenty-thousand times a year.

Throw myself to the cogs with no fear—

Might find silence or indifference.

ã Copyright 2002 george k george