Covered Faces

April 11, 2014
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They just lie here
On this slanted wooden shelf,
Hands and faces fully concealed
Beneath blankets of lint and dust.
I can still hear them tick.
Still following their blueprints,
As it’s the only thing they know.
But who can appreciate
A clock with a covered face?
Just marking time…
With no one even able to appreciate that.
You see, there is no purpose
To a clock that but ticks
And talks.
No – they must truly be witnessed.
Because beneath this coating
Brought unhurriedly into existence
By interminable, insistent indifference,
Lies the substance.
Even though they may appear the same,
Underneath their coat of filth
I know that each one
Is a masterpiece, unique, intricate.
It’s just a matter
Of brushing off the dust.
In the corner lies my feather duster,
Gathering dust by its lonesome.
I suppose
It’s been a while.
I pick it up.
Heavier than I expected.
This will take effort.
Do I really want to do this?
Do I really want to care?
Usually I don’t.
But today…
I’m actually curious
To discover what lies beneath.
And so I stroke and I brush,
Doing away
With their cloying,
Claustrophobic coverings.

Some resisted.
Some just let go.
But eventually
I free them all.
Their hands and faces seem to thank me.
Each a different time, a different size, a different style –
But all are thankful.
And all are beautiful.
…But looking at them now,
Shiny, glossy, reflective;
I find it somewhat strange
How it was in the covered clock faces
That I truly saw my reflection.

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