If a clock can be a household’s totem then we remain hopeful
ours will show us an accurate blue moon before too long.
In the meantime, we’re quite used to people asking (ineptly)
What’s with its arrythmia and beaten-tortoise air?
The much-polished answer is: uncertain timekeeping is remarkably
soothing for the under-twenties, disposed to fantastical lie-ins,
while visitors can’t help but declare themselves,
either, leaping up horribly at its misdirection
or, mildly trusting to its idiosyncratic version of the now.
In or above the fray, our clock clucks on plying a number
of desirable timezones with its deft black hands as oars.