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Grandfather clocks always appear to me
to add an elegance,
an unspoken rapport to a room.
It was something I always coveted,
a polished mahogany monster
hulking in my hallway
chiming the hour in tinny bells.
At night it would cheerfully
mark the passing hours,
by echoing across the rooms
of my house.
I find now a sad grateful part of me,
that is content without a beautiful grandfather clock echoing
its deep tones,
when in the wee hours of the morning
as I lie between waking & sleeping,
I cannot settle with the minute ticking
of the wristwatch at the bedside.

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