Four Seventeen

In the junk drawer, tangled up with string,

a paperclip, a broken key,

I found it, a small, silver thing,

my grandfather's, waiting for me.

Out of habit, I turned the small crown,

listened close, a childhood rite.

But no faint click, no gentle sound,

just silence, heavy, in the light.

The minute hand, stuck at four-seventeen,

the second hand, a frozen spear.

Dust motes danced, a hazy screen,

across the glass, so cold and clear.

It holds its breath, it tells no lies,

just time, gone quiet, in its eyes.