| 720 Clocks |
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| Fractured Story Telling | |||
| Written by Francis Scudellari | |||
| Tuesday, 02 June 2009 21:51 | |||
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Seven hundred nineteen clocks plus one new-bought she loving cups in pale hands before it takes its time- saved place among pieces atop two dozen shelves-- blond-skinned particle board framed by squat book cases that dust-free stand before her, patient for this day Clocks with wood-grain finish, cased chrome, or dyed plastic; topped with never clanked bells or kid's cartoon figures-- an endlessly spun chase round faces, oval, square her favorite tight sealed within black cat's belly; tick-waved paw, twitch-tocked tail each short minute stroking It's a lucky number A very special time When you can make a wish For anything you want, and it will come true , some day... The mothering low words circling back, she surveys her measures collected for four and twenty years stretching from right to left Each now properly wound, batteries freshly charged to call up magic twice this day, filling it full of her wished for minutes Whether old-time displayed by mismatched bandy lengths-- pointed, ornate, and spare that sweep ever forward through inward notched halos; or mechanical marked between flipping black tiles; or more modern counted by re-posed bits of eight light arranged from behind Oh. But is it the time that's very magical, or the sight of numbers all lined up, standing tall, each pointing at the sky? Her childish answer swings upon her as she twists the gray ridged, clicking knob of the purchased blue cube set one minute before its right-neighbor to form a well-tuned chorus of seven hundred twenty clocks to barbed-ripple read eleven: eleven This last one pushed into its first awaiting slot she sits, slow scans the shelves, a day's worth of wishes; the same whispered, wanting words that she will repeat one thousand, four hundred forty times, in constant chanted hope for lives lost by four and twenty years
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