Clockster Doctorettes

it’s three o’clock
my god – stop the clocks
you know which ones
take the weights off and the pendulums
load them in the car, gently
don’t forget the wind up keys
we’re on our way to the Clockster Docterettes
who claim knowledge to repair antique clocks
good luck to us – we’re on the way

speeding through tiny towns with hills wavy pretty
looking like that’s what snow is made for
send me a picture
then grant, sycamore, and state streets
where we dropped off the clocks for an estimate
oh, my – an estimate
hey , they run fine
give them a squirt of clock oil
not a frontal lobotomy


on the way back we passed camp Quilter –
she thought it said Quitter
at the local small town roadside drive though feed house
she got a large soft drink
the size of an Opel Cadet,
any larger it would need turn signals

i popped my ears trying to suck a small shake
the consistency of a goodyear tire
i sucked and sucked and then popped up a freezing slug
that hit the roof of my mouth and landed on my teeth
like two hundred pounds
of frozen dancing reindeer in tap shoes
i saw stars, screamed in pain
nearly passed out from the shock
but kept the car on the road
and sped us home

no call yet from the Clockster Doctorettes