father time's wispy white beard
drifts like cumulus clouds over
his work desk. with a bony finger
he adjusts the half-moon glasses
on the bridge of his nose,
an absent-minded gesture—
this blind clockmaker
hasn't seen in years.

the gadget fidgets, plied
by his callous-tipped fingers.
over the radio, a jazz duo
croon a somber tune.
the old man wipes beads
of sweat from his brow
with the back of a hand,
then connects two wires.

sparks sizzle in the dim light
of the workshop, cascading
comet-tails in brilliant plumes,
filling the room with hues
of phosphorescent blue.
once more, he'll try in vain
to compartmentalize
spacetime.