Stuttering at Six

The power surge hit like a slap in the night

and the kitchen has been holding its breath ever since.

I haven't bothered to find the stepstool,

so the clock stays stuck at the moment it died.

The second hand is trying to be brave,

twitching a fraction of an inch toward the seven

before falling back to the six, exhausted.

Inside the plastic hatch on the back,

the battery is growing a coat of salt.

A white, crusty bloom of chemical failure

leaking out in the quiet of the room.

It looks like a reef at the bottom of a sea

where time doesn't matter anymore.