Vanessa Ogle
Collage of a Clock
Is a clock a human fractal?
So many tiny parts repeating.
The paint is chipping off, exposing metal underneath.
Cold like germy carts in supermarkets.
Two feet are at the bottom.
The clock stands perfectly.
Flipped over, it’s a miniature mouse.
It is heavy, solid, like a tape measurer.
This clock isn’t hope.
This clock means nothing to me.
This clock is not my mother’s deathbed.
Someone should use this clock as a coaster.
Who else is always late?
I’ll never know the person who made this clock.
Does a clockmaker think about time like I do?
How some days I want so much!
Like when light makes tree leaves yellow.
Clockmaker, do you think about time?
Death? The poem about lovers in the street?
Or is a clock your office chair?
I can see my reflection in its legs.
Who gives a dying man a clock?
You reflect what someone else has decided.
In that way, I am like you.