Rest Home

Rest Home

The air was cool in the shop when we
Walked into it, through it, and it carried

The heartbeat sounds in its own regular
Atmosphere. We passed among narrow

Aisles, and we stopped at last before
One of them, arrested by how still

Its pendulum hung. The others all moved
And swept and tocked, but this one was silent

And immobile, its face a testament
To its own end. We adored

It, knowing that it had grown still
While all alone, away from all eyes

That had ever noted it or
Admired it or dismissed it.

No one witnessed its final swing, its last
Hand’s movement. And then it stood alone,

Though shoulder to shoulder with its kin, and
It would never sing the hours again,

Never call out the running fathoms of
The river over which it watched. It

Would be forgotten, lost, hidden. And
We left it there that it might be found or rewound.