If only I were wise!
Clockwise, with little noise, my hands would trace
the closed and perfect circle of my face,
my inner workings hidden from your eyes.
I'd wisely wend my way
around a center peg, and never veer
too far from there; nor would I volunteer
more information than the time of day.
They say a lady knows
intuitively how to pacify
all comers with one temperate reply.
Tick tock. Why, thank you. Steady as she goes.
But silly me, I'm just
a busted clock whose springs are all unsprung,
my gizmos lolling like a lecher's tongue,
out in the open air, come rain or rust.
If you have any comments on this poem, Rose Poto would be pleased to hear from you.