Time On Our Hands
The pleasure of watching a man at his work
Ten minutes before close,
I managed to sneak in.
There was a man saying his prayers,
He looked up with a grin.
I handed him my watch,
And watched him take it apart;
Slow, and methodical,
A man at work on his art.
His hands were firm and steady,
On the small, delicate parts;
Amidst the silent, ticking clocks,
And the beating of our hearts.
His eyes were completely focused,
And his body hunched over;
Every move made with purpose,
As I watched, over his shoulder.
Here was a man in no rush,
He wanted to do his best.
He hardly made much money,
But he seemed content and at rest.
As I left, it dawned on me,
That what the world had lost;
Was the art of focused work,
Without worry ‘bout time or cost.
There is a simple pleasure,
That comes from losing yourself,
In a job that goes beyond -
Fame, wealth or self!
