Miss Havisham, The Smoker

An antique wooden clock
Doubles as a jewelry box
And squats on a desk;
The hands don’t even tick anymore.
Even if the thing still had batteries jammed in it
It is broken.

The little drawer holds a pair of some lady’s gold earrings
I say some lady’s
Because I, certainly, am no lady…

The secret compartment behind the clock face
Conceals a lighter and four stale Camels
Hidden inside an Altoids tin
Bit and pieces of sweet-smelling tobacco
Spilling out the paper ends and
Mingling with the vague scent of peppermint
As time goes on.

Except time never really goes on, does it?
It has stopped.
The intricate hands set very deliberately at eight-forty PM
The same time Miss Havisham stopped her clocks in that Dickens novel
You know the one you never read your freshman year of high school.

All this probably speaks to something
A metaphor about time and decay
But all you can think is,
I want to have a smoke

Failing to see the irony
That your life is time
Your lungs decaying daily
And the saddest part of all
Is the clock isn’t even an antique at all.
It was bought for seven dollars
At the Salvation Army Store.