OK.
I'm going to read a poem called "In time" about a clock.
"In time".
"As far as clocks, it's time to think of it.
I have one on my kitchen shelf and it is flat with a machine
made flair, a perfect machine for 1948 at the latest.
It made of signing plastic with a number of sharp and clear
and slightly magnified in that heartbreaking post-war style.
The cord too short, but what does
it matter since the mechanism is broken
and it sits unplugged alongside, a cheap ceramic rooster,
his head insanely small, and yet his tiny brain alert,
for he is the one who will crow and not that broken buzzing
relic.
Though time is different now and dawn is different too,
you're all night and it is dark when he grows,
and you are waiting to see what direction you should face.
And if you are born in time or was
it wasted and what the day looks like, and is a rooster loyal?"