Shavings

The clock on the wall has a stutter.

I watch the crown of a boy’s head

as he stands, his sneakers squeaking

once against the waxed floor.

He feeds the yellow wood into the hole.

The grinding is a physical assault,

a raw, circular chewing that travels

down the drywall and into my spine.

The stud behind my chair shudders

with every turn of the hidden blades.

He doesn't stop.

He’s grinding it down to a nub,

filling the plastic tray with cedar dust

and the gray, graphite salt of his nerves.