He did. My grandfather.
He had a grandfather clock
It swung and chimed
with not a tik nor a tok
But an honest to goodness
Bong Bong Bong... and Bong.
At 4 he sat in the dark of dawn
Plaid robes and shuffly slippers
And all that makes proper grandfathers

I wonder now:
Did everyone have one of those?
A grandfather like the ones a kid draws?
Mine sat in a blue cloud
of Turkish Coffee and Lucky Strike
Across the dining room from the clock
Was it his grandfather's clock?
Still he sat, counting time
Lifting the little cup with a clic
A loud sip, a pause
Back down with a clac
A long puff. Repeat.
Until the next hurl of Bongs

I wondered then:
What did grandpa think of in those wee hours?
In between Bongs
Well past my yesterday but long before it could be called today

I tell you now:
He was breaking in the new day

Tomorrow, when I wake up
he would be dressed and pressed
And back home with breakfast.

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