as i prepare for my meeting at noon,

the clicking of my typewriter

is met with the ticking

of my old grandfather’s clock.

it sits across from my desk,

illuminated by the office window.

its sixty eyes watch

as our hands are at work.

its hands shine like spinning knives

under the glow of the morning sun.

they act as quickly as my own

as they move dexterously across the keys.

my hands move faster

as i try to match the pace of the clock,

which seems to surpass me.

it mocks me,

its gleaming hands pointing upwards,

further illuminated

by the sun at high noon.