the grandfather clock on the dining wall
was grandfather's pride and joy,
it ticked through the summer, it ticked through the fall,
since the days when my dad was a boy.
it never was late by a second or two,
it struck every hour with pride,
it told us the things that we already knew
while everyone grew old inside.
we ran for the buses, we ran for the bell,
we raced against numbers on glass,
and the clock watched it all from its wooden cell
as centuries started to pass.
the irony is that it never moves space,
it never goes anywhere new,
it runs round and round on its porcelain face
doing what it's commanded to do.
we built a machine just to tell us we're dying,
we wound up the spring with a key,
and while all of us were frantically trying,
the clock was the one standing free.