We the Broken, Weary Now

The clock is broken

It stopped ticking a long time ago

stopped counting how much time has passed.

It's an old grandfather clock, oak wood, and sculpted to perfection

carefully crafted by hands

that belonged to men

with names 

like Washington

Jefferson

Hamilton,

flawed men with brilliant words and limited vision.

It has gold accents that used to glint in the light

but now they are dulled, covered by dust

forgotten in the corner of that basement

it was a promise we could never keep

not for long, anyway

I think it used to be beautiful

I guess it still is, in a way

but its a far cry from what it looked like before.

Behind the glass pane, 

the clock hands are frozen at exactly 5:06

It's a funny number, I guess,

but there's no symbolism.

Life doesn't work like stories do.

Not stories like Lincoln's

Not even Martin's

The universe likes it when the good wins

but its hard to see that when your eyes are filled with smoke.
 

It used to chime a melody every quarter of an hour.

I know it did.

I remember.

Do you?

We used to believe in every tick, every chime,

in liberty and justice and freedom.

There was a time when Eleanor Roosevelt held press conferences

when Fannie Lou Hamer refused to be silenced

There was a time when Obama spoke of hope

and we believed him.

The clock is still here.

It used to be bright and strong and beautiful

Like you.

Like the America I believed in.

I'm sorry.

Truly, I am.

And so I'll sit here,

in the dark,

next to a broken clock that waits

I don't know what for.

But maybe when the dust clears.

We'll be able to wind it up again.