Stopping the clock
I didn’t think the pendulum
was so heavy and cold. It wants to
finish its arc, but I hold on and
it clunks against the oak
cabinet. The weights are low, but there
is no need for two fluid pulls
to bring them to the top. The small
black cat sniffs at the still
metal. Wrinkling his nose at
the cabinet’s musty smell, he does
not linger as I buff
my fingerprints from the brass
with my shirtsleeve. The pendulum
knocks against the back as I latch
the door. I stand up, press my forehead
against the cool glass, closing my eyes
against the fading hand-painted numbers.
I know what time it is.
by Chris Fow Cohen
Shared with the author's permission
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