The Unplugged Clock
Stewart Joyce

Words that turn a body to stone and tell me that itís over. Her feet up
on the wall, mine on the floor, heads meeting at a corner in the middle
of the bed. Nighttime stars out and the clockís unplugged. Window open
and it smells like summer. She doesnít want me here but doesnít want to
say it, I donít want to be here but want her to say it. July hangs in
the air and a cool breeze pushes around a warm night. The sounds are a
cricket outside and a quiet murmur of voices inside. The busses have
stopped running, and the only thing keeping me here is a long lonely
walk home.