Liking how it looked,
I bought a clock, and hung it up,
not knowing it would stick itself
into each silence offered.
Noisy and, just like everything in the sky,
never still — circles of stars, birds, planes,
motes of ash from every pyre that ever burned.
Never familiar enough to go unheard
and always counting.
Insistent even when out of sight –
hanging onto each pause just before
this second. This second. This second.
A metronome matching, only by accident,
my wife humming to herself quietly
in a room below.
Lee Potts is a poet living in Philadelphia. His work has appeared in several journals including The Painted Bride Quarterly, Gargoyle, Ghost City Review, and Barren Magazine. He has poems forthcoming in Saint Katherine Review, 8 Poems, UCity Review, and Sugar House Review. He’s online at leepotts.net.