A clock ticks,
twice a second in the vacant air,
it hits against the silence
of the room,and holds in defiance
the emptiness, the apparent nothing.
And tells of someone near.
The clock ticks,
a scarf liesdraped across a chair,cold silk not worn today, butused some time. But not todayso discarded it is still, still.Placed across the chair.
still twice a second. Someone will know
what the time is, in this patient silence;
someone wants to know, someone not yet there
and the room waits silently.
Like the scarf across the chair.
Poem by Alex copyright