The silence in the kitchen has a weight to it now

The silence in the kitchen has a weight to it now,

a heavy blanket dropped over the toaster and the sink.

For ten years, that plastic square kept the rhythm,

a gift from my uncle that I never really liked.

I found it frozen at three minutes past twelve,

the red needle shivering in a tiny, nervous fit.

It wants to move but the gears have gone soft,

caught in a loop of trying and failing.

I popped the back and saw the chemical salt,

that crusty white bloom on the copper spring.

The battery leaked its life out in a slow crawl,

leaving me alone with the hum of the fridge.