By Shem Onderi
City clock—
who designed you?
What idea shaped your face,
your height,
your place above our heads?
Perhaps the city struggles with time,
with watches,
with remembering to look up.
Or maybe it is the duty of city managers
to remind us—
time is passing,
whether we notice or not.
Whose time do you keep, anyway?
Who profits as your hands circle endlessly?
In this city, people invest in everything
except time.
So the government invests on their behalf,
through you.
For time is money,
and here, money matters.
People earn,
people spend,
people pay taxes—
on time.
You are huge, visible to all,
yet you tick in silence.
I want to install one in the rural,
where time is valued too.
But there, the cocks crow early,
long before anyone looks for a clock.
In the village,
people are not in a hurry.
Many eyes have seen the city clock.
Many feet have rushed past it, still late.
I want to meet the clock manager,
ask him to run it faster—
double speed.
So my problems fade quicker.
So payday arrives sooner.
Or better still,
install another clock
at the Treasury gate,
so they, too,
know exactly
when payday comes.