The Chronometer of Nelson’s Bluff

Twelve stories. Brick.
One face to each compass point.
That is the end of the plain facts.
I don’t know why they built it.
Anyone old enough to know isn’t talking.
There is not enough of a town around it
To make you think it belongs. Nonetheless
Over the years it has brought us together.
Weddings have taken place in its yard.
County politicians still have their photographs taken
Against the brick, even though you cannot
Get a clock face in the picture.
Grounds maintenance is done by whomever
Notices the need. Boys camp
In its shadow. Many a first kiss
Has been the end of a dare to go to the tower—
Standing in the yard the initiates fumbling
Is precious public display: new knowledge
Only in the particular, not in the general.
The hands inch staccato in their own pointless tracks.
Maybe not a marvel by others’ standards,
It is our marvel.
                                           What else nearby
Is worth coming to see, worth remembering?
Next year we will place a Christmas tree
At the base for most of the winter season,
Contribute ornaments, make something
Out of our deepening communal spirit.
Always each face tries to tell the same time,
But if the truth mattered, I’d tell you
Each face is just a little off
And each just a little differently.
You would think that might be important,
But stand there long enough, and it isn’t.