Different models of clocks
arranged to discipline there.
All stuck in different times
none of them show
the perfect ten past ten.
Amidst the unwound springs
and soldering guns, he sits
with a lens to his right eye
while the other scans the road.
Melodies from an old radio
do the time travel and transport him
to a quiet, away from all the bustle.
In that yogic trance he sets in motion
the stuck gears and corrects
the cracked displays.
We could watch him and construct
an anthill in our memories, he wouldn't care.
But a step into the circle of penance
his look is enough to drive us kids away.