Chronographics

Behind the rectangular glass case

A bent head, lit sideways by a lamp A lens, stuck into the socket of the right eye A forceps in hand, drawing out The innards of a dead watch.

Tickers tick loud Tolling, the impending doom. Watches lie about In various states of disembowelment. Old, huge clocks hang in the walls Like Capuchin monks in the catacombs.

How precise! His fingers wield the tiny tool And stab it into the underbelly of my watch. I stand still - My time is at his mercy.