The steeple bell
from the Anglican church
chimes every 15 minutes,
doing a double at the bottom
of the hour, and nothing short
of a concerto at the top.
I check my watch
and it’s 2 minutes ahead
of what I hear,
on par with my smartphone
and the shortwave station
that’s purportedly set
to an atomic clock.
They say on WWV
that it’s accurate
to within a nanosecond
every 3 or so million years,
though I doubt
the Australopithecines
who must have got it going
could have foretold the competition
from Rolex, Samsung, and the Rector’s
reliable ringing
just a block-and-a-half away;
that these simple-minded crosses
of apes and men
could have envisioned accuracy
above that of God,
that His House of Worship
is 120 ticks behind the times,
that I haven’t a clue what to do
with that brief but priceless allotment
that the good Lord, if He is right,
has given me.
Andreas Gripp
Andreas Gripp
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