By Trupti Joseph
All screws on the clock
are missing except for one
Its face cloudy and each tock
held together by dried chewing gum
Long hoarded upturned toothpaste caps
Uphold sanity of our clocks stumpy legs
There I sit counting spoons
drilled and bent backwards
fashioned into handles to open doors
To welcome their maker,
their creator, my father
Be it broken things or me, he doesnt care
He is yet to find what he cant love or repair
So here I am with his other imperfects
Still breathing, still living
Part mended, part broken