Hope of Another Age
A clock in an antique shop.
You wonder if it works, thinking probably
not. The last date on the face is 1982.
You were in your twenties then,
unaware of the lives you would live
Between then and now,
unaware of how many ways a man can break
and survive, no, more than survive,
find new ways to thrive, unaware
of what an antique you would become,
valued in spite of, or maybe because of
your broken and restored past.
You pick the clock up.
The gold toned metal has faded.
The clock face has faded.
There is a well worn elegance to it,
like a faded movie star, somehow still magical
long past it’s projected shelf life.
You pick it up. You wind it.
Nothing happens. No tell-tale tick-tock.
And yet somehow, it still speaks to you of time.
History. Hopes of another age,