10.30, Recurring

In the room
a sliver of torn wallpaper
and the gnawing silence
accuse me.

As the floorboards groan,
an echoing radio, incongrous
in the twice told tales
of morning,
tells me the answer is
blowing in the wind.

With the absolution
of certainty,
I turn to
the living room`s stillness,
where the accumulated
total of my existence
is contained
in a cracked leather case.

And in the ache of finality,
my epitaph becomes
a battered carriage clock
which tries and tries
and fails
to move forward.