My father is busy writing his novel.
He wrote one before, when I was a boy:
One about tiny mice in tiny clocks,
Running businesses, living like princes.
That’s where he’s at,
Out in the country,
Looking for Inspiration,
Which he lost somehow.
Easily as a ring of keys.
Meanwhile,
I am my father’s tiny mouse,
Living inside his tiny clock,
Watching the stubby hour hand,
Willing it to glide in reverse,
To meet the minute hand once again,
And beat it at its own game.
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