My grandfather’s clock finally ran out of breath

My grandfather’s clock finally ran out of breath.

The minute hand is sagging toward the six,

a heavy, brass exhaustion that looks like death

or a machine that ran out of tricks.

I didn't realize how much I relied on the beat

until the kitchen went perfectly, hollowly still.

The silence is a leak that starts at my feet

and climbs up the wall with a steady chill.

I could buy a battery at the shop down the road,

but I think I’ll just let the time stay stuck.

There’s something honest about a finished load,

and a heart that’s finally run out of luck.