By Michael Lee Johnson
I don’t wind my pocket watch these days.
It ticks off my age—seventy-eight, nearly more.
I’m an antique gadget, time suspended—like a loose tooth.
It cogs and springs out of sync—
refusing to catch, refusing to move forward.
I shy away from thoughts of endings.
Age is a Cracker Jack box, emptied of prizes,
replaced by a blinking digital clock—
No secret toy inside—only a sunken rattle.
And when it stops, there’s no clapping—pure silence.
Published in 47 countries, Michael Lee Johnson is an accomplished poet with eight Pushcart Prizes and eight Best of the Net nominations. He has created 426 poetry