Unsolved

The radiator is doing that rhythmic clicking again,

a sharp, metallic snap like a bone breaking

under a heavy boot, and the clock on the wall

is three minutes ahead of the rest of the world.

I found the Sunday edition on the chair next to me,

folded back to the grid, 7-down left empty

except for the place where the lead went through.

Someone got angry at a four-letter word

for 'peace' or 'surrender' and stabbed the newsprint,

leaving a jagged, gray-rimmed mouth in the center.

I’m staring through the hole at the carpet’s coffee stains,

waiting for a nurse to call a name I recognize,

while the radiator keeps counting the seconds

until we all just give up on the clues.