Clockwork

In the 27 seconds
tacked on the end of the calendar,
she catalogs closets. Meanwhile,
the family Labrador tears

a Styrofoam stem from the P
in the baby’s name to make D
for dogged, and in the den
downstairs, the aces and eights

at the bottom of the deck
presage a hand on the back
of her husband. Finches whipping
past open windows dodge

hawks and shotguns thanks
to thousand-mile-per-hour
gusts reconstructing the city
securely inland. Not dead

in pus, off-white as lies,
her husband’s leukocytes
replenish his appendix,
pop a patellar tendon

together on the bone.
Tears satiate her thirst
for salt on lips, and wash
a pocketwatch whose dial

ignites a tiny human
who paces grounds that spread
the jaws that spew out gods—
Rube Goldberg built it best,

not first. The maker places
new digital displays,
watches them count the last
10 seconds to the blast.

Copyright © 2006 Steven D. Schroeder All rights reserved
from The American Poetry Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission