Hickory， dickory， dock——
it began of course in the nursery.
Mouth so safe——the tucked in
repetitions that would make
a child smile， absurd words——
how I loved the non-
sense. The mouse
ran up the clock.
Then， the clock struck one.
The chemotherapy is working.
Her hair has not yet fallen
to the dried out ground——just thins.
I sit and listen
as she retells her life's stories——hear only
the fragile rhythms. The notes expand
then stick together. The accordion of her
years fans then shrinks to a small space.
The music and the place
will remain here after
conversation is over. I run
Down there every afternoon to check
the minute and the hour
hands， the drum and the pendulum， the weight——
to reverse the escapement.
The mouse ran down，
the mouse ran up. She's trapped
inside the ticking clock，
and I flail against the break-
proof glass， not able to get her out.
As ridiculous as it sounds
hickory， dickory， dock