Dead Spring

Found it in a junk drawer,

under dead batteries,

a fossil of small gears.

Quarter to three, still. Always.

The crystal face, a dull gray stare,

motes of dust like tiny planets

caught in its flat sky.

Wound the knob, felt the resistance.

Seized.

No little grit, no click or whir.

Just a cold lump of metal

that once held time

like a secret. Now,

just a weight. A dead thing

in my palm.