Transition
The chief removalist leaned
towards the grandfather clock
with its exposed pendulum,
extended his hand toward it,
saying: I need to take this
for safe keeping.
It was only attached
by a tiny hook.
As this was Saturday,
and we were not to complete
the move till Monday,
I thought: Oh thatšs
not long to miss its steady
beat and powerful
half-hourly gonging
voicing time.
No, the packers left
(see ya Monday),
we stood feeling both bereft
and burdened with so much
accumulated stuff
now mostly boxed,
but the clock ticked on,
faster!
All else was on hold,
unheimlich,
inserted in a hiatus
between two addresses;
but the clock sped,
it was on speed.
The half hour struck,
much too early.
The hour followed fast upon.
Soon the clock reached evening,
long before the day did.
Midnight struck at dusk.
We fled the house;
returned at bedtime,
heard the clock begin tomorrow,
slept uncertain through
a schizoid night,
woke before dawn in this
prolonged betweentimes
hearing the clock racing ahead
at a tireless canter.
Wešre moving, moving, moving.
The pup jumped between us,
tail quivering and thumping,
restless for reassurance,
in his mouth the soft toy
shaped like a carton of popcorn
he brought home with him
that epochal day
from the pet shop,
gnawing his ragged soiled transitional object,
vicarious voice,
eliciting its squeak;
at home provided
hešs close to us.
11-12 December 2005
Max Richards
[bye-bye Balwyn North,
goodday Doncaster]
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