The Spring

The grid went down at ten.

The silence in the hall is thick as wool,

crowding the corners of the room

where the digital numbers used to glow.

I find the clock by touch alone.

The silver key is cold, a small

stubborn wing between my fingers.

I turn it once, twice,

feeling the internal coil tighten,

the metal resisting the push

with a dry, biting click.

It’s the only heart left beating

in a house of stalled machines.