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

front of them

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