Wound Down

I was looking for a double-A

in the mess of rubber bands and dead pens.

I found the plastic egg timer instead,

the one that used to scream at the stove.

It’s been quiet since the spring snapped

somewhere in the middle of a Sunday roast.

I gave it a shake, hoping for a gear to catch,

but it just sounded hollow and finished.

There’s a loose screw rattling in the gut of it,

sliding back and forth like a dry seed in a pod.

It’s lighter than it used to be.

The weight of the time it was meant to hold

must have leaked out into the drawer.