The Centrifuge

The floor is cold against my spine,

a hard relief for the ache I bear.

I watch the four blades carve a line

above the shadows of the chair.

The brass chain gives a rhythmic knock,

a steady tick against the glass.

It’s like the ghost of some old clock

watching the hollow minutes pass.

The dust is caked along the edge,

a greasy velvet, thick and black.

It circles on its narrow ledge

and never finds a way to track.