It sits on the wall

A painting in black and white

Of a huge stopwatch,

Staring down on the lounge.


Its two wooden hands

Always say one o’clock,

It seems to be waiting…waiting

For its one moment.


Every twelve hours,

Only for a moment,

It really does tell the time,

but only for a minute.


Yet it does not regret

the shortness of its glory.

In twelve hours it will feel glory again,

But only for a minute.


The one o’clock clock.