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TIQUE- TAQUE COMMODIDADE
The comfort of a ticking clock Proves welcome far from home in some Uncosy room sat with a book In hand. The rhythmic ticking from A bedside cupboard makes me look Up in a quiet thankfulness, Acknowledging the calm--- then back To reading in content. I bless The humble clock with its bright tick Pervading every confine of The room--- welcome intruder; quick And regular the tick I love To hear, mechanical its click, Complementing a quiet read, A fine companion to the thick And heavy dictionary I need To work through while I deeply think And contemplate the range, the queer Collected lexicon, the work Of quirky grammar and its power--- To order what I think and speak, A magical conspiracy Within the brain, where it can wreak A crazy quilt of imagery, Compelling pictures that will lurk In memories, or sometimes fade If not acute--- one must be quick To capture them as soon as made. . . . . . And while I sank to pleasant doze It seemed a thickly-gathered flock Of dreams came thronging with the close Of wakeful consciousness to take Possession of my faculty. . .
But now I hear the falling book--- I am awake again; I stoop, Pick up the dictionary, and look For damage: discovered none. Hope Of further study gone, I seek To slumber yet again. . . how quiet The room is now, with just the clock For company. . . the room is quiet, Quiet as a mouse? Yes, a mouse. . . A mouse. . . a mouse. . . ran up the clock tique-taque, tick-tock, hickory-dickory dock--- the clock struck, struck one? the mouse ran down, hickory-dickory dock. . . ah, the comfort of a clock. ~ Stanley MM II ~ |
