The Daily Grinds

The terrier caught a scent of something

moving through the gravel outside.

I lurched up before my brain

was even out of the pillow,

and my spine decided to speak.

It wasn't a voice, but a series

of dry, rhythmic pops,

the sound of a bicycle chain

thick with rust and road grit,

grinding through a gear

that hasn't been used in years.

I stayed there, half-hunched,

listening to the house settle.

The dog stopped barking.

The clicking in my marrow

is the only thing keeping

time in the gray light.