The old pendulum


    needs a bit of oil to stop


    the creaking it belches


    when it swings left and


    right.


    Tired gears, built


    long ago,


    not to last


    grind against each other


    like a dam that pushes away


    the rapids.


    And the people below stand


    at the foot of the water


    without a care in the world to


    watch


    and take their little pictures


    they''ll forget about the next


    day,


    trying to convince themselves its


    for a photo album


    they''ll never make.


    The memories right in


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    slip from their grasp


    like the drizzle of all that


    water the dam misses.


    But, it''s just a drizzle,


    so the tourists don''t budge.


    These days, the guests


    all have smartphones that count


    nanoseconds, and


    expensive watches built under


    roofs where living humans work


    as automatons.


    There''s no heart to their craft.


    And nobody looks at the time


    these days anyway.


    They have plenty to spare.


    They buy watches for the


    aesthetic.


    They hauled the clock from


    grandpa''s grave house


    to replace an old vase that


    nobody remembers getting


    and nobody wants.


    The gears grind grit between


    rusted teeth


    powered by a tired swing


    coated in rust


    conceived to last forever


    yet build for ruin


    but a short while later


    when everybody forgets


    to check the time.


    They''ll buy another clock anyways