the stopped clock

you watch
the crane
swing the wrecking
ball
into the side
of a tenement
building,
a low stretch
of red bricked
walls with windows
laced in black
iron.
striped
and stained
mattresses
fall out like
tongues.
chairs drop
empty into the rubble,
lamps, unlit
with yellowed
shades break noisily
into the heap.
petals of clothes
drift softly
down.
everything within
had a hand on
it once.
the nail to the wall
to hold
a picture,
a head on a pillow.
that stopped
clock.