It’s been fourtwelve since the middle of May

It’s been four-twelve since the middle of May,

the battery leaked a slow, white crust.

I check my phone to start the day

and brush away the kitchen dust.

But for one thin second, the wall is right,

the red hand shivers against the glass.

It’s a jagged kind of mechanical spite

watching the actual minutes pass.

It doesn't move but it holds the line,

a stuttering pulse in a plastic shell.

I’m waiting for my life to align

with a gear that’s trapped in a quiet hell.