It is hard to resist such a metaphor:
the new grandfather clock standing stately
in the corner of my dining room,
while the other grandfather of this house
waits in a hospital bed, to save his failing heart.
A small inheritance from my mother,
a retirement gift from the phone company,
the clock sat in its carton, blind and silent,
in a living room that waited for a promise
of redecoration for nine years.
I brought it home when she died.
I unwrapped the cardboard sarcophagus,
pulled the chains of the counterweights,
nudged the mirrored-brass pendulum to motion,
and marveled at the first sounding of chimes,
the Westminster tune, tantalizing,
revealing a little more melody
every fifteeen minutes.
The other grandfather, his muscle straining
with every beat, stoically holds his own,
as the doctor threads a wire and balloon
through his veins. With any luck, the blood
will sluice back through the body, a river
squeezed through hollow branches.
The heart will cycle, keep its own time.
As the minute hand stretches to twelve,
we are rewarded with the whole of the song,
and the counting of the hour, a deep, slight
discord of tubular bells, announcing
another arbitrary chunk of time survived.
At the top of the dial, peeking from the metal cutout,
leers a moon-face, three-quarters full.
