The Mainspring

The router is a row of unblinking red.

No signal. No scrolling.

The phone is a heavy, useless slab of glass

propped against a stack of magazines.

I found the clock in the back of the linen shelf

behind the towels that never get used.

The key is cold and small,

biting into the meat of my thumb.

Each click is a jagged tooth

catching on the tension of the coil.

I wind it until the spring pushes back,

the only thing in the room

that still knows how to work.