You are a curator of art, of love, and of loved things,  wandering down these asphalt aisles under the beating, unrelenting sun. With a gaze antithetical to mine, I pray you walk by and walk on. An array of artifacts, in better shape than I, awaits you, yet you stop next to me.  Your gaze wanders over  my rusted numbers, my broken hinges,  my missing crown, my stripped weights,  my fallen lyre pendulum, my twisted clock’s face, my once-shining gold frame now diminished like the sun fading  into the sea’s edge.  Even so, you take me home and polish my  finish. Never erasing the years of wear and tear‒  You highlight the nicks, the scars, the chips.  You tell me it adds character.  Even so, you love me when my ill-timed chimes interrupt your evenings.  Even so, you cherish me when I have no services left to offer.