Static

I opened my eyes and the room was still gray,

I thought I had hours to sleep through the day.

The hands on the wall were at four and at twelve,

like a book that’s been stuck on a dusty old shelf.

The battery leaked a white, crusty salt,

bringing the gears to a shivering halt.

A circle of dust where the red needle shook,

is all that remains of the time that it took.

It’s right twice a day, or so I am told,

but the kitchen is quiet and the coffee is cold.