3:17

I held the clock up to my ear

and listened for the sound that should be there.

The second hand was frozen at 3:17—

some moment I'd walked past without seeing,

without hearing the small tick that had become

so regular I'd stopped registering it at all.

I don't know when it stopped. That's what undoes me—

not the stopping, but the gap between the silence

and the moment I noticed. How long did it sit there,

ticking nothing, while I moved through my day

assuming it was still keeping time?

The silence where the ticking was is louder now.

It's the only sound in my apartment.

It's all I can hear.

I could fix it. Replace the batteries, throw it out,

get something newer, something that keeps

better time. But I've set it back on my desk

and I keep glancing at it like if I watch long enough,

the absence might get tired of being gone

and come back.