Stuttering Seconds

It's three in the morning, or maybe it’s four.

The plastic frame hangs near the bathroom door.

The second hand hit the top of the track

and now it’s just twitching, refusing the slack.

Click. Click. A small, rhythmic snap

like a finger hitting a hollowed-out trap.

The battery’s dying, the gear is stuck fast,

refusing to let the next minute pass.

A thin layer of dust sits along the top rim.

The light from the streetlamp is yellow and dim.

It’s been twenty minutes since time moved ahead,

but the noise keeps me wide awake in my bed.