The 6:14 Bell

I wait for it before my water boils,

a rhythmic violence across the lane.

The pulley squeaks, the rusted metal coils,

and then the thumping starts, a dull refrain.

He shakes the wool out over the abyss,

a heavy rug that hits the fire escape.

I watch the gray dust bloom—a ghostly hiss

that gives the morning light a solid shape.

It is the only clock I trust these days,

the way he beats the dirt out of the grit.

I watch him through the early, yellow haze

until he's done and I am used to it.