Seizure

It’s been losing time for months,

a slow and dragging limp.

It tried to find the rhythm once

but it’s a tired, hollow crimp.

The red hand stopped its nervous walk

between the six and seven.

It’s finished with the plastic talk

of the minutes and the heaven.

The silence is a sudden skin

wrapped around the kitchen air.

I don't know where to now begin

with the clock just hanging there.

I could go out and buy a cell,

a double-A to start the beat.

But I can't find the heart to tell

the time to get back on its feet.