Cycle of Sounds

    Hickory， dickory， dock——

    it began of course in the nursery.

    Mouth so safe——the tucked in

    repetitions that would make

    a child smile， absurd words——

    how I loved the non-

    sense. The mouse

    ran up the clock.

    Then， the clock struck one.

    The chemotherapy is working.

    Her hair has not yet fallen

    to the dried out ground——just thins.

    I sit and listen

    as she retells her life's stories——hear only

    the fragile rhythms. The notes expand

    then stick together. The accordion of her

    years fans then shrinks to a small space.

    The music and the place

    will remain here after

    conversation is over. I run

    Down there every afternoon to check

    the minute and the hour

    hands， the drum and the pendulum， the weight——

    to reverse the escapement.

    The mouse ran down，

    the mouse ran up. She's trapped

    inside the ticking clock，

    and I flail against the break-

    proof glass， not able to get her out.

    As ridiculous as it sounds

    hickory， dickory， dock