Cuckoo Clock

A very gloomy poem.

everything was perfect
in that delicate sunshower of light
at each sound of the bell would erupt.

she sat on the porch
waiting for his passionate words
to carry up to her from the bottom of the creaky steps.

the bell rang eighteen times
and then, at the nearest possible opportunity
he fell to his knees in a fury of emotion and proposed.

at six-fifteen that evening,
they exchanged their vows
and her ‘I do’ built a cuckoo clock around her.

now the bell rings twenty-one
she’s doing well, with a few scampering children
and the ticking of the clock, once sharp, now a constant dull moan

things change, but never she
as the gears wind and grind around her
until the bell rings seventy-two, and shortly after
her cuckoo clock falls into the obscurity of some small,
very square
landfill.