Mechanical Pulse

It cost four dollars at the shop downtown,

a plastic circle with a cracked glass face.

The noise it makes is enough to make me frown,

a hammer hitting wood at a steady pace.

The red second hand doesn't glide or sweep,

it jerks like it’s fighting a heavy wind.

It’s a rhythmic twitch that won't let me sleep,

counting the ways that I have sinned—

or just the minutes I have wasted here

listening to the gears grind and click.

The silence was a thing I used to fear

but this mechanical pulse is making me sick.