The Clock

The clock strikes—

A deep, booming knell.

A grandfather clock.

My grandfather died,

With that in his house

Never striking the correct

Hour

I knew my grandfather less

Than I'd have liked. When he died,

My mother became executor-of-the-estate;

A job she didn't want, but had to take.

And so we all ended up with something:

Me, a computer on which to write, and read, and learn;

My brother, a watercolor painting to hang in his room

Of a misty, cold, pale morning. And all of us, we

Got the clock.

We repaired it; had men called

The Clock Doctors in to recalibrate it,

To stroke its gears and sound its chords, to puzzle over

The thing my grandfather made out of a kit

With his bare hands.

I've never been sure why we repaired

That old clock; but its striking has become a part

Of my life now.

In some ways, I think

We were trying to bring a bit more order

Into our shattered

Lives.

AN) Anyone who knows a way to get this to stop double-spacing where I don't want it to, I'd appreciate suggestions. Thanks!