There are three
clocks
in my room.
The oldest is digital; its
cold beeps
have broken my dreams
for years, and its red glow
burns
my eyes.
The newest floats between
two poles
on my window sill; old-fashioned
hands
hide its face.
The third is a keyhole;
simple,
analog, it opens
into an empty cabinet.
Each one is broken.
The old, red-eyed clock says 3:05,
and has
for hours. The window-floater
and the secret holder agree,
mostly,
though they differ
on the minutes.
It’s not so early. The time
tugs on my head,
bending
my spine until it aches
then releasing it
like an archer with a long bow.
I sit upright.
3:06,
says the red-eye.
To prove
it wrong, I stand and walk
downstairs, because the window’s broken
too.
It won’t let in the sunlight
that releases me, so that my eyes
can close, and my mind can
shut up.
I open the front door
and look for
the clean sky of dawn.
The sky’s broken.
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