A lost art is that practiced by young Guy
Relogue, an artisan of great renown.
His clocks and watches, each of them made by
His own two hands from things that he has found
In nature, all are bought long ere they're made.
So Gabby felt a winner when she got
One as a gift for her new beau, who played
The bass in a new band, just getting hot.
He wore the watch at his next gig with pride
(Those in the know, knew they should be impressed),
All unsuspecting: 'twas near-genocide,
The time it stole from all the crowd. Distressed,
The whole arena aged some forty years.
Afar, Guy youthened, tight'ning tiny gears.
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
Terror Tuesday: Distrust That Particular Maker
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Whoa, you just brought out my inner Bill and Ted jawdrop motion. Very cool premise to this poem.
ReplyDeleteThank you! For some reason, I'd had clocks and watches on the brain all day today. They can be evil little things. Like the way they're mocking me right now for being awake...
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