I walked into an antique shop

The richness of the past

Permeated through the air

Reflected in the glass

It was somber yet reflective 

The wood floor creaked with announcement

As my feet shuffled in and around 

I peeked at Santas and student lamps

Made of green shades beveled 

In umbrella shapes to direct the flame

Antique brass writer’s quill 

Stood alone without its calligraphy pen

Two retiring gentlemen were owners

One was a retired circuit judge.

He loved his clocks, and he loved working on them.

Asking him the price of the small clock with a grandfather’s tone

He told me, and said he was waiting for it to time out.

I smiled and said, ” I have time, I could wait too.”

150 years old.