Stationary

I climbed the kitchen chair to reach the wall

where the ticking finally decided to quit.

There’s a film of grease on the plastic gold,

a year of frying things caught in it.

I wiped the dust from the top with my thumb

and saw where the black hands chose to stay.

Four-twelve. The exact moment the ringer went off

and took the air from the rest of the day.

It’s right twice now, in the morning and dark,

holding its breath while the house goes cold.

I should pull the battery out of the back

before the silence starts to take hold.