There is but a mere blank space,
a nail bending out like an old withered woman
on a wall decorated with peeling paint,
remnants of cobwebs that had made the place
behind the clock, their home.
I have nowhere to look to know the time of the hour.
My mobile, happily charging on the table across the bed
like an infant feeding on mother’s milk.
My back hurts from a sudden overdose of exercise
resumed after blameless months of exhaustion.
I sit, my eyes darting across the room,
searching desperately for avenues to gauge time
something, our ancestors did quite easily
looking up at the sun or, judging the shadows of the trees.
Minutes of the hours planned by a casual stare at the clock
out of service, away from the constant cluttering sounds
of the house it made home
whose inmates run their lives
staring at it as if it was a prisoner being interrogated
every minute of day and night.
Today, it lies free in the company of other clocks
in a resting home of repair, while its ungrateful human family
lies handicapped during its absence.
