by Al Carty

Her antique clock, tick-tock, without the

hickory-dickory mouse that munched on

drapes and baby-grand and made Grandma

so nervous. Grandpa got that bastard.

Her clock, tick-tock, polished and petted

with Old English, the blood-scent

of this house, coursing through the clock's

works, pendulum-syncopation is the pulse.

Grandpa sets his morning watch, and smiles

and runs a grizzled hand along the fine

old wood, sipping from his ancient cup,

remembering this first gift from him to her.

And now her clock, tick-tock, museum waiting,

Grandpa sips and smiles, he also waits, marking

time for his destiny, awaiting Grandma's smile.

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