Twice a Day
The clock hangs on the wall, dead
And unmoving.
Its hands grasp silently at its black borders,
Pulling uselessly at peeling black letters.
Analog?
Maybe, but it doesn’t matter.
The numbers blink with eyes made of lines.
It’s out of battery— has been forever,
Since time stood still and the gears ground to a halt,
Left alone for better or worse,
Forgotten for neither.
The arrows point at their final resting place:
11:58:43.
Two minutes.
No, one minute and seventeen seconds.
There’s a big difference.
That’s what it said the last time you looked up,
Bored and searching for an end.
The hands have always been there, you know,
Pronounced dead at eleven fifty-eight and forty-three seconds.
It’s a blameless accusation, a reminder—
A warning for what, you’ll never know.
T-minus one minute and seventeen seconds.
Maybe the earth will be long empty
Next time those pointing fingers move,
Slowly,
Inexorably,
Forever inching forward towards the twelve.
It’s night outside, and bright, and the
City is loud enough to drown out the ticking.
You watch the clock, left
Broken out of apathy, and
For a heartbeat,
You can’t remember which numbers it was on.
Clocks that don’t move don’t tick.
A slow change is still a change.
A slow end is still an end.
If the second hand moved, would you notice?
11:58:44.
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