the room with broken clocks

-
the room with broken clocks

The room with broken clocks 
is small and square, the blue
of robin eggs when evening slips 
between the window shades, comes trickling through

the curtain's teeth. Sitting alone
and not alone, a thrift-shop Proust 
face-up upon 
my lap, my right foot measures out 

the fiddle solo in Dust in the Wind 
that played this morning on the radio. 
There is no tick of time. I float amid
the stillness of the now,

reminded once again why I
refuse to spend a dollar eighty-nine
to buy 
an off-brand pack of double-A’s

at Walmart;
a dollar eighty-nine to spin the earth.

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