The Play of Clocks
"Clocks!" we warn our audience,
your mother seated on the waffled
carpet, your sister Tina shrouded by
Queen Isis's cloak, Raggedy Ann,
and Dunk the One-Eyed Monkey.
"Are you afraid of clocks?" we sing
above the huge sofa cushions safety-
pinned together, brocade backdrop
of our stage. From her seat, the dots
on your mother's housedress glint.
Moving to the right and left wing,
two parallel oak kitchen benches,
we lift the scrim, a pale bed sheet,
revealing the brass anniversary clock,
four spheres spinning in time to music.
We coronate the clock, bestowing
a gold crown specked with jewels
as our jackhammer feet furiously
orbit the theater at our hips, our arms
picture frames around our heads.
"The day when time stands still!"
we cry, then sing King Pisces' decree
to imprison straying girl bunnies,
the beautiful ones, an order always
frightening because time has stopped.
Esmerelda, the most beautiful bunny,
lies on the stone ground at the top
of a marble tower. Beyond the door
bolted with copper chains, six horses
on hind legs, armed with spears.
"She is the obstructor of time!" we yell,
forced to ring the silver bell
which forever suspends the seconds.
Sadness fills her stomach like a balloon
and her eyes fill with tears that never fall.