I want you to know that I miss you, I miss you so

a man older than anyone would guess
sitting at his work bench
glasses perched precariously at the edge of a nose
that has smelled a billion smells,
exhaled a trillion trillion breaths

hunched over the pieces
the works of a watch that stopped
the second hand was muscle tissue from a heart
the hour hand diamond, but started as coal
the problem was the minute hand

it was a shark, and it didn't move enough
the master craftsman, some might say artisan
holds the tiny gears and springs on the tip
of every finger, placing them gently in their beds
consumed with the hunger of one day making it work

days without food, a week without sleep
his eyes have negotiated light for their health
and his concentration is never broken by the knocking
bed might as well be a coffin
if he can't make it work again

with each returned sprocket
(after careful and loving inspection)
the whole comes closer and closer to its revelation
but something complete is still a waste of time
if he can't make it work

finally the day comes
as the assembled bits of life, and viscera, and headstone
take their given places in the machine
traces of hope lubricate the gears
as he prays he can make it work

as all things, winding up
and only to be wound down
the tick is his eulogy
asleep forever, dreaming of a victory
but why couldn't we make it work?

manic