The Wired Up Clock Poem by Troy Tun

entering the room

i saw different colors -

some popping out,

some running away from me

with outlines of

fancy furniture following

smoothly with my eyes…

and everything was

so silent and still

like the picture beside the bed

of my mother even then dead.

no sound was heard

except for the ticking

of the nervous clock,

and i could smell the coffee

of its lonely misery, for

unlike us whose hands are joined,

it alone was keeping the count

of hours and minutes

cooked up by mortal men.