Cracker Jack Box Poem

 
I don’t wind my pocket watch these days.
It ticks off my age—seventy-eight, nearly more.
I’m an antique gadget, time suspended—like a loose tooth.
It cogs and springs out of sync—
refusing to catch, refusing to move forward.
I shy away from thoughts of endings.
Age is a Cracker Jack box, emptied of prizes,
replaced by a blinking digital clock—
No secret toy inside—only a sunken rattle.
And when it stops, there’s no clapping—pure silence.

I wait through longing seasons.
I am hoping for your return.