My father’s beater.
For years, moved daily from pocket to pocket, among a wardrobe of suits. Gaining two minutes a day, pulled back to temporary correctness each morning, to the sound of the radio’s pips. Kept almost clean by the gently polishing rhythm of the civilian march from Waterloo to the City. Ticking off the minutes in the dark, next to his heart.
A thing of rare beauty. I love all the beats: the train, the heart, the pips, the march. X
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