Counting Down

Rattling through the junk drawer's mess,

past dried-out glue and twisted wire,

I found this thing, this cause of stress,

this small machine that feeds desire.

The plastic casing, scratched and worn,

feels warm against my hesitant palm.

A sharp click starts the seconds born,

destroying stillness, breaking calm.

It measures minutes, hours, days,

a finite breath held in its gears.

It watches all my hurried ways,

and counts down to my future fears.