Passage of Time

The new kitchen clock with its
circle of red shocks the walls
into purpose and order.

The hazy apartment sharpens
around the iambic tick
that whispers in each room

measuring the sleepy silence of
a faded house in a neighborhood
where the grass spikes
through the cracked concrete in the street.

Last night brushing my teeth
I stiffened and shut off the water
thinking the cat was rustling plastic
or someone was creeping inside

but the regularity of sound
was only the clock
telling me it was nearly eleven

and I had wanted to be in bed
at ten. I turned on the kitchen light
to see it:

red rim with an analog face
that showed the white walls
to be a little yellow.

The cat came to rub against my ankles.
His purr rattled under the clock voice
singsong, surgent like waves.