Love to the Blue Clock Above the Kitchen Sink

I've spent pieces of today sorting through unfinished writing projects of various sizes. I'm meeting with my writing group on Monday, which means that something must reach completion by then...
I'd forgotten about this attempt at poetry from last fall. It made me think of a conversation I had with my mom and Jan at a conference a few weeks ago. Making plans to meet for the morning session the next day, we decided that whoever arrived first would choose and save seats. I immediately whined, hoping that it wouldn't be me so I wouldn't have to decide where and then fight to keep the spots. Jan (lovingly) replied, "Megan, I wouldn't worry too much. I don't think there's a very big chance of you getting here first." Point taken.

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Love to the Blue Clock Hanging Above the Sink

By Megan Djerf

We’re standing in my kitchen, laughing, and I wait for you to notice it once again.
It’s the same question every time.
“It’s still broken?
It wasn’t working the last time I was here.
Why don’t you throw that clock away?”
If you don’t mind my saying so,
You’re practical, smug.
“If it never tells the right time, why keep it on the wall?”
Like last time, you reach to drop it to its doom.
And like last time, I re-hang it on my wall, and tell you,
"Leave it alone. I love that clock."

True, it cannot claim beauty or expensive pedigree,
or even an interesting story of how it came to be there.
And yes,
It is defective as far as clocks go.
I’m not pretending that it’s a clock champion.
Hours arrive, expecting to be marked, and they must wait
for the minute hand scrambling nearly ten shy of its goal.
It struggles along, always reaching toward the truest moment
And missing by several, but refusing to abandon its quest.
We don’t look at that clock to know the time.
My wristwatch can serve that punctilious purpose.

I’d explain it to you,
But you leave the house thirty minutes early if it’s snowing
And have seen the beginning of every movie you’ve ever watched in a theater.
And I’ll bet you’ve never limped all day in high heels because you ran to beat the bride into the church, either.

You wouldn’t understand.

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Two weeks after writing this poem, we actually took the clock down as a prelude to throwing it away. (Poetic kindred spirits aside, it IS disruptive to have an unpredictable clock.) In so doing, we discovered that the clock keeps time when it's not on the wall. Must be some problem with the battery. Therefore, it's still in the kitchen, ticking away. So perhaps there is hope for me, too!