Poetry by Erin Blackburn
The clock has the face of an owl and a nose like a needle.
Crusted with rust, it waits for something to tell.
Time cannot be told anymore, for the age of age has wrung the clock dry
with old wooden boards and the swinging piece that swings no more,
taunted by zebras with uncountable stripes across the mahogany
and fields and oceans, everything that is not a clock,
for the clock has stopped.
Its slow winders, old and twisted. Its glass shield cracked.
Its wood chipped and insects have found refuge
in the clock that swings in stop-time,
with a spidery finger that used to know when,
but lost memory of now long ago,
when it used to twist around and kiss the hour
and brush by the minute each time.
The spidery hand is alone now,
resting on an old seven,
far from the nine who hangs in dead company.
Time has stopped.
The old clock is broken.
It misses the old old carpet and staring at the wall.