No

Twelve minutes fast since sometime in March.

Each morning I subtract without thinking—

the same small math, worn to a notch

in the day. My houseguest, blinking

at the clock, offered to fix it.

Reached toward the wall. I said no—

said it before I'd decided it.

She said oh

and pulled her hand back.

We moved on. More coffee, new subject.

But I've been thinking about the no. The fact

of how it came. The direct

way it left my mouth. The clock face,

yellowed at the rim. The second hand

that hitches every few ticks, traces

back to rhythm. The command

I apparently have, to keep the wrong time.

Someone set it wrong and left.

I've kept it. Twelve minutes. A crime

I commit each morning. Like fixing it is theft

of something.

My houseguest's hand was in the air.

I said no before it touched.

She looked at me. I looked elsewhere.

Still.