Mr tick tock

Every thread-fine screwdriver had a home
and a story.  That french ormolu 7 day
knew them all,  hoarded them
with its tainted gold. Mum told me

they called him
Mr tick tock when she was a kid.
Even then his face seemed
as old as those swelling his shelves.

Barren shelves now, playgrounds
for spiders.  His hands worked the tiny tools
within the ormolu’s heart
with lover’s obstinacy.  He didn’t look up,
even when his own stopped.



kj2apr10