Dial

It’s sitting in a box of rain,

a heavy skull of plastic grain.

I put my finger in the nine

and pull it down the jagged line.

The wheel is slow to make the turn,

a lesson I have yet to learn.

It ratchets back with a steady click,

the ghost of a clock that’s feeling sick.

It waits for a hand that isn't there,

to breathe a word into the air.

But the cord is cut, the dial is dead,

leaving all the heavy things unsaid.