The furnace died ten minutes ago

The furnace died ten minutes ago.

The silence in the house is heavy,

the kind of quiet that makes you hear

the blood moving behind your ears.

In the kitchen, the time is 9:12.

In the hall, it’s already 9:16.

I’m losing four minutes every day

somewhere between the fridge and the door.

The red second hand is stuck on the eight.

It twitches, a small, desperate pulse,

shuddering against the gravity of the gear

but never making the jump to the nine.

I should take the battery out.

I don't need two different versions of being late.