He saw her
Looking at the cuckoo
clocks
And asked
Did she like them?
Yes, but I have one,
She replied.
Perhaps you’d be
interested
In another, he
persisted.
No thank you, she said.
There’s only one,
She thought.
She could see it on the
wall
The heavy, winding
chains
The Roman numerals
The dark brown eaves
The delicate cuckoo.
Hear him coming out on
the hour
And every half hour.
How often she had heard
it call the time
Watched the cuckoo at
work
Waited for it to come out.
It was never hers.
It belonged to her best
friend
From childhood.
It was in the kitchen.
He’s gone now,
So is the clock,
It went to relatives.
But it always would be
hers, she thought,
She would never replace
it.
Couldn’t.
It was the only one she wanted.
And she wanted it to be
where it always was.
Memory held it fast.
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