The clock in the living room
is of an old design,
white, round face,
block numbers one through twelve.


The hands are also the simple,
traditional design,
thin, black lines
one shorter than the other.


A quartz movement marks
the time, pushing the second
hand around with an interminable,
repeating tick.


We converse often,
the clock and I,
when the nights are still
and the world slows down.


Life and love are often topics,
along with hate and death
and fear and loneliness…
subjects where we share expertise.


The dog is comforted
by the sound of my voice,
but seldom seems
to notice the clock.


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Filed under Poetry

Some of what I write is true, some is fiction; most is merely possibility.

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