The Steady Beat

Grandmother’s clock, in the hall,

has found its voice again.

It used to be a background hum,

now it punches through the quiet,

a tiny, persistent drum.

Each beat a small erosion,

a grain of dust from the sill.

It’s not just telling time anymore,

it’s counting down something else,

something in the empty space

between the window and the wall.

Like the kitchen timer, wound up

for coffee yesterday, still

going, forgotten, on the counter,

a soft, mechanical heart

beating for nobody.