Katheryn’s grandfather clock
her once proud companion
now sounds to me like a broken
ballad for her shrinking world
striking every hour on the hour
a church’s procession song
in long vibrating tones of death
played for the speed
of a head down shuffle
and unclear thoughts
from her worn dusty chair I wonder why she still rises
to wind it every day
mortality’s constant reminder
sixty more minutes of loneliness
regret and memories but mostly
this endless bone-aching isolation
sharing lunch the other day in her
dim dining room I thought I heard
Could silence be any worse that this?