“Cogs That Turn”


Chrome handheld counter,
Three small screws hold,
Keep the front face in place,
Chain links attached to a brass crimped ring,
Hanging from a signal belt loop,
Pressing the button,
Turns the numbers inside up to 999,
In a city with old wooden buildings were the dust used to roll thick clouds over,
To the other end of the shore side,
Brick buildings being built up,
Start to cluster in with newly built businesses,
Cobble stones laid down,
Cover the old dirt dry road,
The man stands clicking the button on top with his thumb,
Turning the cogs inside,
Keeps a total record of each person as they board the steam train,
Taking them to the new city by the shore,
Years go by,
Still the same man,
Now a old guy,
His wrinkled thumb still clicking the button on top,
Wrinkles on his forehead,
Shows wisdom he’s obtained,
Punches in his last time ticket for the day,
He passes away overnight,
Replaced by a new guy,
Chrome handheld counter,
Continually being pressed away,
Eventually becomes obsolete



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