The Not-a-Clock

I am the Not-A-Clock.
I do not pass the time.
I do not live by increments,
Nor mark them with a chime.

I have no hands with which to point,
No face to read my thoughts.
I offer no more service,
Than my existence; to-wit my cause.

May I sit upon your mantle?
I ask nothing more than this.
To gather dust, so peacefully,
No appointment will I miss.

I am not to be relied on,
For, of time's chatter, I know not.
Your days and years can pass me by,
Will I care? Not a jot!

Time's hiss, and spit, and whir of cogs,
Shall forever pass me by.
I shall not, cannot, will not note,
The way in which time flies.

A stitch in time may save nine,
And a watched pot may never boil.
But I'll sit here, silent, happy that,
I know not of this toil.

A life of ease is all I know,
And your ways I'll not mock.
Mine is but a simple life,
For I, the Not-A-Clock.

About This "Poem":

This poem written around 2001 and was just a bit of fun like anything I do. I've been surprised at the positive feedback it has warranted but trust no one assumes that I take this or myself too seriously.

It was written for a collector of clocks who feigned annoyance at receiving additions to her collection as gifts. This was presented in a bespoke frame which completed the joke; shaped like an upright clock where a stone on a base sat in place of the face (implying it could be the Not-a-Clock) and the poem in place of the cabinet.

Sadly this was all lost on the recipient. I'd have been better off getting her a clock!