Broken Clock

by Dave Barber

It’s the same story
Young man, wet floor
And your hand punishing-

I’m listening to the wind sound
Before each strike lands
Trying to ready myself-

Swish, Pain, Swish, Pain, Swish, Pain.

Not looking at your face,
Twisted up like a demon
Contorted in anger,

My foolishness,
The Clock has stopped,
Hands hanging limp
No sounds except a whimper
Followed by her ‘shut up”

From the other room
She’s talking to herself
As I lay down, hurting,
Feeling the burn of raw flesh-
leather’s impression Back, Arms, buttocks.

The sound is still with me-
The feel of the pressure

Sinking into my sleep
Curled up-