A rusty, clockwork Cog rolls
from some nigh forgotten shelf
onto a carpet thick with dust.
Years of wear render its roll
uneven and unbalanced
as it traverses the living room.
It wobbles once, twice,
and then falls onto its side
as if to gaze upon the ceiling.
And this saves its eyes
from seeing the Grandfather clock
tick-tock as though the Cog was still inside.
Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock.
Tick.
