In the Dining Room hung a clock;
A strident, clapping ticker whose sound marked time too strongly.
While we could hear it, we had to march orderly to the grave.

So it hung in the Dining Room,
We only ate there at Christmas, when we were too noisy to hear it.

When I was thirteen:
I woke up in the night.
I was child-scared.
And so I took stern steps.

The clock was part of our family and deserved respect.
So there would only be a pause to its clap, to give our years space,
And my child-feet hurried back to bed.

My crime was discovered:
Bored and free-handed in retirement, my father opened the clock
Found the potato I had pasted the gears with.

The clock was repaired by expert hands,
And proudly hung in the Rumpus Room.
Where it aged my parents,
Unhurried, patient, and stern,
And one day caused bickering among their heirs.