Moving Day

Octagonal, that smudge of occupancy
on the beige wall where a clock had been.
Does it tick less now that it’s gone?
Surely, it marred his days in ways
that would preclude a lighter sheen —
surely, what is left behind in lieu
of a good and fancy name, in lieu
of all the good and great works
dreamt up and abandoned to wage,
abandoned to these four rooms
and a bath, where, in one last
gasp he fell, split the towel rod
with his own cruel weight — where he,
naked as the wall, lay in state
remembered only by the absence
of a stain where a clock held vigil
for a number of days.

Image: Jon Tyson on Unsplash