They just lie here
On this slanted wooden shelf,
Hands and faces fully concealed
Beneath blankets of lint and dust.
.
I can still hear them tick.
Tock.
Still following their blueprints,
As it’s the only thing they know.
.
But who can appreciate
A clock with a covered face?
Just marking time…
With no one even able to appreciate that.
.
You see, there is no purpose
To a clock that but ticks
And talks.
No – they must truly be witnessed.
.
Because beneath this coating
Brought unhurriedly into existence
By interminable, insistent indifference,
Lies the substance.
.
Even though they may appear the same,
Underneath their coat of filth
I know that each one
Is a masterpiece, unique, intricate.
.
It’s just a matter
Of brushing off the dust.
.
In the corner lies my feather duster,
Gathering dust by its lonesome.
I suppose
It’s been a while.
.
I pick it up.
Heavier than I expected.
This will take effort.
Strength.
.
Do I really want to do this?
Do I really want to care?
.
Usually I don’t.
But today…
I’m actually curious
To discover what lies beneath.
.
And so I stroke and I brush,
Doing away
With their cloying,
Claustrophobic coverings.
.

Some resisted.
Some just let go.
But eventually
I free them all.
.
Their hands and faces seem to thank me.
Each a different time, a different size, a different style –
But all are thankful.
And all are beautiful.
.
…But looking at them now,
Shiny, glossy, reflective;
I find it somewhat strange
How it was in the covered clock faces
.
That I truly saw my reflection.