orange clock work

you come up for air,
being on
the phone all day. hoarse.
weary. rising cautiously
from the sick couch,
beaten by your own
age.
you stumble
against a box of tax
papers onto
the orange chair,
spilling
warm tea.
landing on the rug.
you lie back
and stare at a blank spot
on the blue wall
and think
what lovely place
for a George nelson
ball clock, orange.
perhaps.
you can almost hear it
ticking,
as you wonder how much time
you have.