The Hitch

The plastic gears are grinding in the dark,

A rhythmic snap against the kitchen wall.

It’s three-fifteen, and every tiny spark

Of silence dies before it starts to fall.

The second hand is caught upon the six,

A frantic finger tapping on a box.

I bought this thing for nothing just to fix

The quiet, but the metal hitching mocks

The way I try to sleep. The face is cracked,

A crooked circle hanging on a nail.

It’s stuttering through time, it’s under-stacked,

A cheap machine that’s destined now to fail.