Clockwork
Centerfold

From the pain of yesterday,
to the sound of the rain.
Tomorrow is gone today,
bringing more of the same.

Rain taps its fingers on the glass;
I turn toward the door.
For half a second, you’re still here.
Then rain. And nothing more.

A clockwork centerfold,
framed in panes of glass,
for a future left untold.
This will be the last.

They taught my hands to keep the time,
but never how to hold.
I learned to answer every chime
and let the rest go cold.

The future wasn’t easy;
now children can’t grow old.
Nobody left to see me,
my story never to be told.

The swings still move at sundown,
though no one comes to play.
I count their empty journeys
and call each one a day.

From the empty streets
to the empty swings,
life still blooms and stings,
but still remembers everything.

The glass falls into clover.
The clock gives way to rust.
The world keeps turning over—
our story in its dust.