Still Life With A Clock

The clock's hands are sticky

as they cover their face in confusion

Has it stopped eating time?

I swallow, a dry lump in a dry throat

and there is a clicking noise

Did the hands just flirt with eternity and

move?

Oh morning

Will I see you today?

Or am I stuck in this

half-life still-life

of just-before-grey?

3:00 is my enemy

It kills time and buries it

in a shallow grave

and I scrabble with my one good arm

to free the day.

The second hand (the third hand)

has broken free and inches its way

over the clock face

pulling the minute hand

like a filament of light

dragging dawn in its wake

The hour hand slowly gives chase

and I can breathe again.