At 2 p.m.

A clock keeps ticking, without its hands moving;
and I can't find the scissors anywhere.

The refrigerator is humming and so are the walls;
the heater clicks and the lights screech.

The floorboards are crooked and
the woodwork is loose.

Sometimes the front door's lock twitches.
In the alley, a motorcycles is being strangled.

Have you ever been walking and a car zooms past you, and you
hear that loud explosion from it, but the car keeps on going,
roaring into the night?

I've felt that, when you're going along as fast as you can
and you flick off the ignition and the engine shudders, only a second,
and then stampedes, and throws you back.

I'll grip the covers, then switch on the light.
Grab pen and pad, vomit it all on the pages.
Finish with, the scissors are in the basement sink.