The story is the same
Abandoned utensils and fosty beakers, lonely from their night on the shelf.
I place myself, just inside.
A low-level hum from some sort of monitor machine,
Passing the neglected minutes till nine,
The corner webs sit fine, unbothered by the dirty cleaner in the starch white coat.
He's here for the bins only.
And to pass the moments.
I see for the first instance,
This lab has a clock
I had not clocked,
In many appointments,
And it is halted.
Digital imposters
Impose on every surface
And the old fella has stopped to watch,
As if stunned by his replacements.
Suspended,
High and lifted up
For every blind eye to see,
The curse of kairos:
A Portal into eternity
And just to mess
I touch the tips of his digits
And slowly swirl the hands
to 11:11
A number that I notice on a regular basis, since some film inserted it into my brain.
And I smile at the thought of the scientists pondering the significance
The significance of this coincidence,
But their sceptical brains will filter out the mystical nature of my prank.
And conclude it was just a coincidence.
But it wasn't.
Because it didn't.
And I did.
And maybe no one will notice.
I didn't,
Until I did.
And I think of all the years later. The facility being abandoned,
or the Lab being refitted,
Whatever chronos allows
And some clearance company employee (or facilities staffer),
Simply plucks it from it's perch.
Noted that it is no longer running,
But pay's no regard to my prank,
Or the reading on it's decades addled face,
And throws it in a skip,
11:11
It came to mind
And I,
In mine,
Pay in kind,
And think of the clock
From time to time.
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