Forty-Five Minutes

The afternoon lay flat and gray,

until that sharp demand.

It ripped the quiet away,

held fast within its hand.

That plastic shell, a crimson stare,

its gears begin to grind.

A ticking in the air,

leaving sense behind.

Forty-five minutes, claimed and gone.

Each second, like a stone.

What was I waiting on?

Now I am left alone.

With just the ticking, slow and deep,

the memory of the sound.

Secrets the moments keep,

buried in the ground.