The clock in my kitchen is five minutes slow.  
I laugh at it sometimes.
I sit in the rusty metal chair and stare at it;
listening for the sound that proves its short comings.
At the strike of the hour the grandfather clock
in the hall begins to chime.
It is one of those clocks that was
handpicked in the universe
to always have the correct time.
There are not many like this
but there must be a few
to keep our world turning.
My household has lived by this clock for years,
everything revolving around its eternal knowledge.
I laugh at the cheap, battery ran
clock on my kitchen wall.
It is nothing in comparison.
I hear the grandfather clock
beginning his five o’clock strokes.  
I stare at the clock on the wall.
Four forty-five.
  Today I don’t laugh, I cry.