The shrill, metallic cry at dawn -
A long beseeching moan, forlorn;
Its jarring timbre splits the air
And bids me rise to meet it there.
I stumble blindly down the hall,
Led by that ghastly, ghostlike call,
And there in darkness, lamplights glow,
My clockwork cat bids me hello.
The scream fades to a whirring sound -
A pleasant drone once I’m around
To change the oil and turn the key;
I wind her up, as she winds me.
This cat was once of wholesome flesh,
Not gears and pistons, wires and mesh
With rusted frame and broken tail;
Her movement brittle, weak and frail.
Where every jolting jerk and judder
Makes her weary innards shudder;
Taking all her life to die,
To fossilize and petrify.
“Oh clockwork cat” we often say,
“Oh, should we wind you up today?
When every turning of the key
Prolongs your body’s atrophy?”
But clockwork cat, she lingers still,
And clockwork climbs her clockwork hill,
Like clockwork, we still wind her on,
Till clockwork cat is finally gone.