It could have been sitting right there
waiting to be noticed, but off to the side
wanting to be perceived as describable,
like the antique heirloom clock
alive with the fingerprints of deceased loved ones,
stopped mysteriously on the time of their death,
assumed and taken for granted, overlooked.
It was probably not quite ripe,
not frenzied with anticipation,
not ready to crack the egg,
not bursting pungent tomato red in the sun,
not eight months pregnant,
not salmon underbelly sky at sundown
not dilating, screaming to put a date on birth.
It most assuredly wasn’t walking
through the door with a green muse tattoo
or being interpreted over tarot cards or tea leaves.
It could however stop by as gypsies do,
or more to the point
croon itself into a dream
and hope for some clarity at the alarm.
It might be just on the other side of the room,
All the way in the back of the junk drawer,
in an unopened envelope,
or a pocket in a vintage topcoat,
or maybe just a glance out the window
at the right moment,
in the proper frame of mind.
But for certain it wasn’t going to peal today,
for absolute certain
hours would definitely have to pass
between here and there,
no matter what
it doesn’t tell time anyway
when and if its working.