The Worry of Time

The Worry of Time: Part 1

1943 was a cold year for the sympathizers and the families they tucked away.

A dozen heartbeats raced from the dirt-floor cellar beneath the floor at the pounding

On the door. They had come for blood and valuables and would not leave empty-handed.

A ticking pocket watch was the only noise they could hear over their own worry.

In silent hurry, it was buried in a cigar box in the soil and left but not lost

While the family was found, taken away; never to be again seen.

The war ended all over the world and peace reigned again,

And with slow, painful deaths, the years passed away.

So many people and places, and treasures were long lost,

And there the pocket watch sat in its box still ticking, pounding

Time out of existence until it slowed to a stop without worry.

It had survived the ordeal with all its parts intact and would not emerge empty-handed.

Future generations looked for answers about the tragedy and came up empty-handed

But nothing like it would ever happen again.

Backtracking to the homelands and searching for clues, lingering worry

Still thick in the air as the day of the raid. Cobwebs and rubble cleared away,

The box was uncovered and the pocket watch revealed. Hearts pounding,

They found it, and it ticked as though not a single second had been lost.

The discoverer packed the pocket watch away as his luggage, a gamble that he lost.

He had boarded his flight, but his things went astray. He came home empty-handed,

Liberated of his favorite shorts, his expensive sunglasses, and the watch. Ire compounding

With sadness overcame him. Would he ever see his treasure, the lost pocket watch, ever again?

He avidly awaited his luggage and feverishly searched it upon arrival; stolen away,

He decided after searching his bags over and over, with no success; only worry.

The pocket watch found its way to a pawn shop, a place where it could cure someone's worry

That a bill could not be paid for want of a few dollars. After all, it was not lost

Because someone knew where it was until it was whisked away

By a collector of old-fashioned, pre-war tickers. On most days, she'd gone home empty-handed,

But not today. She brought it into her home. She gently cleaned it, making it like new again.

Like the people who owned them, watches of this kind had taken a pounding.

This one was still alive and ticking, having been buried away from the war above, the pounding

Of picks on stone and hate on souls; rescued from dinged parts and innards gone whirry.

She put it among the others to be donated together as a set in the museum, to be looked at again,

The reason why it was created. There it could remain and tick until silent once more, never lost

But shared by any who cared to look in. Those who did would never go home empty-handed

With new understanding of life before the greatest tragedy, and that could never be taken away.

The pocket watch ticked away time in the safety of the museum, worry shined away,

To show the people who had been pounded into submission had not left empty-handed;

They shared one timepiece, and it would never again be lost.

The Worry of Time: Part 2

1943 was a cold year for the sympathizers and the families they tucked away.

A dozen heartbeats raced from the dirt-floor cellar beneath the floor at the pounding

On the door. They had come for blood and valuables and would not leave empty-handed.

A ticking pocket watch was the only noise they could hear over their own worry.

In silent hurry, it was buried in a cigar box in the soil and left but not lost

While the family was found, taken away; never to be again seen.

The war ended all over the world and peace reigned again,

And with slow, painful deaths, the years passed away.

So many people and places, and treasures were long lost,

And there the pocket watch sat in its box still ticking, pounding

Time out of existence until it slowed to a stop without worry.

It had survived the ordeal with all its parts intact and would not emerge empty-handed.

Future generations looked for answers about the tragedy and came up empty-handed

But nothing like it would ever happen again.

Backtracking to the homelands and searching for clues, lingering worry

Still thick in the air as the day of the raid. Cobwebs and rubble cleared away,

The box was uncovered and the pocket watch revealed. Hearts pounding,

They found it, and it ticked as though not a single second had been lost.

The discoverer packed the pocket watch away as his luggage, a gamble that he lost.

He had boarded his flight, but his things went astray. He came home empty-handed,

Liberated of his favorite shorts, his expensive sunglasses, and the watch. Ire compounding

With sadness overcame him. Would he ever see his treasure, the lost pocket watch, ever again?

He avidly awaited his luggage and feverishly searched it upon arrival; stolen away,

He decided after searching his bags over and over, with no success; only worry.

The pocket watch found its way to a pawn shop, a place where it could cure someone's worry

That a bill could not be paid for want of a few dollars. After all, it was not lost

Because someone knew where it was until it was whisked away

By a collector of old-fashioned, pre-war tickers. On most days, she'd gone home empty-handed,

But not today. She brought it into her home. She gently cleaned it, making it like new again.

Like the people who owned them, watches of this kind had taken a pounding.

This one was still alive and ticking, having been buried away from the war above, the pounding

Of picks on stone and hate on souls; rescued from dinged parts and innards gone whirry.

She put it among the others to be donated together as a set in the museum, to be looked at again,

The reason why it was created. There it could remain and tick until silent once more, never lost

But shared by any who cared to look in. Those who did would never go home empty-handed

With new understanding of life before the greatest tragedy, and that could never be taken away.

The pocket watch ticked away time in the safety of the museum, worry shined away,

To show the people who had been pounded into submission had not left empty-handed;

They shared one timepiece, and it would never again be lost.