The Clock

Here is a little excerpt from my summer writing class.  I've never written poetry before.  But here is my first attempt at an "object" poem.

The Clock

Grandfather, that he is,
Stands upright in the dark front hall,
Stained mahogany coat is valued,
His dusty crevices tell a story,
Positioned there for many years, seen many things.

With a gutsy peal he alerts you,
Like Paul Revere himself,
He warns you,
If only these walls could talk,
It would be an exposing, egregious encounter.