A clock whose beat is tuned out

clicks its seconds like rocks

pounding and falling on each other;

the little patter of piles of stones



The train whistles its trumpet

as the wheels click and clack

on the track of iron bars and wood

and roars like a lion of steel



Crunching of her foot on the stairs

of old creaking planks of spruce

and padding of coarse carpet

before the creaking of rusty hinges



The wind resembles the humming

of the alien fridge, so native

Both strum chords of one note

to the ignored beat of the clock



So I sit.