Mainspring

The power died with a final pop,

I’m waiting for the drip to stop.

The kitchen smells of thawing meat,

while shadows stretch across the street.

On the mantle, the wind-up gear

is the only voice I’m allowed to hear.

The minute hand is a faded spark,

a smear of gray inside the dark.

It counts the pulse of the empty air

with a rhythmic, clicking, cold despair.