"It’s a mysterious thing time is"
said the pocket watch man
whose shop resided on the corner of 4th and Mabel Street.
"Do you see how the greatest minds
use clocks as the object of mystery?"
I was young then, I shook my head,
hair bobbing with the force of my agreement.
"But why? Why are clocks so mysterious?
For after all, it is we who give them time-"
He trailed off lost in thought again.
I picked up a silver watch that needed repair,
dusting it off on my light blue petticoat.
I looked at it, the gleaming glass showing no movement
He looked up, "That one is broken, I think there is a gear loose"
"I know" I break my stare from the watch
and look to the window,
The old man cups my hands around a small object
Shocked at the cold metal in my palms,
then by the warmth of his hands,
I look down and sitting there was his own brass watch;
beaten from the war, chain swinging below
"They believe when a watch runs out of time,
the person who gave it to you dies"
My eyes widened as I looked into his face
"Is it true" I say, I sure hoped it wasn't
"Of course not" he assured me patting my head
"Of course not". He shooed me out of his shop
and warned me not to lose that watch.

He built the clock that’s in town
and every day the clock strikes noon
It chimed just once then stopped too soon
He died at noon that very day
And his watch has never worked the same way.