Clockwork

tock-tick, tock-tick, tick, tick, tick
black of night
leaves the red electric numerals
graved upon the eyes

tea kettle waits patiently upon
the range for the ringing of the
bells....5:50, 6:00, 7:00....

blindslats yield, curtain-panels drawn
left and right, encroaching sun creeps
above the bridge to glint upon

the windshields dashing past
the funeral home
(whoosh, squeal, crash)

as smells of eggs and coffee
seep into the hallways--doors
open/close open/close open/close
and soles
slap slap slap upon the stairwell,
followed by
a
BANG

women leave traces of
scent behind, by the mailboxes,
while they, bag and box laden,
make their way to station,
school, or office on heels of
all descriptions

at mid-day the bells ring out
and we pause

at three there is the riot
of voices, color, movement,
unceasing, pulsing forward
as the tide

walking home: hand in hand,
flesh against flesh, our voices
piping up against the wind, twin
strands intertwining, knitted as
we once were....

the peace of bed, sheets the white of
bones and eggshells, dark locks
damp upon a forehead pushed
aside to give leave to the lips
to place their imprint there

to bed, again,
with tea and tablets to
urge the drowse of sleep
against the ringing of the bells,
tinny and obnoxious by turns,
these unwelcome heralds bleating,
breaking silent dark in twain