Midnight's Scrape

Dust motes swim in the pale street light,

a slow, unhurried, silent show.

The clock stood grim, all through the night,

then grated twelve, a sudden, jarring blow.

Each tick before, a whispered, dull advance,

a metronome of what was, what was lost.

Now that rough clang, a sharp, metallic chance

to count the minutes, paying some strange cost.

Its glass face hides a tarnished, brassy face,

reflecting nothing, just the empty pane.

And I just watch time's slow, uncertain pace,

a rhythm broken, then again, again.