Poem: His instrument

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His instrument

In this early morning dark
I am unused to the sound

of the old rasping clock that hangs

on the wall until it is shipped

to our son. It is a banjo twin

of the one our girl already has —

gifts from their grandpa,

my father-in-law, who is still

living, though altered

from when he collected time

pieces, wool-serge-suited for work.

He wound keys of all 74 clocks

before driving off in his ‘77

Lincoln, back when he had both

kidneys and a five-bedroom
colonial. His meticulous fingertips
have plucked pendulums

into motion, rotated arrow-hands,

and shut doors with

miniature country paintings

on glass, housing hollows

of time that keep tapping out

the rhythm of a heart,

strumming the quarter hour,
radiating his timbre now into
our many houses across
the land, long after
he has fallen asleep, flanneled
in his corduroy chair,

snug in the apartment where
he'll drift off until the end of time.

banjo clock image found here

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