Slowly, grandiosely,
holding ticking hands closely,
The antique clocks sit quietly at twelve.
Bronze, broken hands, on the smallest silver clock,
The only antique not singing softly- tick tock!
The smallest sits prettily,
Giving smiles noncommittally,
Hands stuck waving at two ten.
What can they do then?
The other beautiful antiquities,
Holding themselves proudly,
With careful lacquer and costly metal
Showing their amazingly antique sheen in moonlight.
Even not as brightly,
While unpolished and unsightly,
The broken silver clock indifferently shines
Bright and brave on a moonlit night.
