Manual Labor

I twisted the dial to twenty to feel like I tried.

Now the plastic gears are grinding in the dark,

a frantic little heartbeat, tucked inside

a casing with a greasy, thumbprint mark.

The red wedge narrows, starving for the end,

shrinking toward the zero at the top.

It’s a nervous sound, the kind that doesn't bend,

until it hits the wall and has to stop.

I’m sitting on the floor, just waiting for the fright,

the mechanical hammer hitting the tiny bell.

It’s a stupid way to occupy the night,

counting down the seconds in this shell.