I know I shouldn't do it too often.
But sometimes I sneak over to the corner

where my hand-carved wooden clock
waits to let me prove, again,

that I can control my day's duration.
When I turn the winding key to the left

rather than the right the world is paralyzed
into numb molecules of movement.

A.M. merges with P.M.,
the world waits,

and I have time to listen
while my heart continues,

to read in unblighted silence,
or just to spend the non-hours

staring into atmosphere,
watching the rain-dropped shadows

imperceptibly widening in splotches
around the window.