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Bob Hirt

Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock. Our shiny grandfather clock.

It sits quietly in its corner, keeping time, yet it knows not at all of time, nor place, from where it came and where it finally goes.

It sits there without opinion, without thought, without destination, without a dream to own. It merely exists. Yet here it sits, silent witness to all the good, and perhaps even the bad behind those secret walls, sworn to silence by the wood and metal of its being.

Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock.

Brought here from another home, perhaps from another land, facing the street with a smile – yet not aware of laughter, love, pain or sorrow – it just does its work – ticking away behind its brown, shiny protective coat – ticking on and on, seemingly for eternity, and then too it will one day die, with no God asking if it served its master well.