the belly of time

even the wood

of the glossed cabinet

smelled

of the house, her row

house

with a marble stoop

in south philly.

she'd raise her stick

and pull

at the chains to keep

the clock ticking.

though never with the right

time, but

soon at some full hour,

from the belly of

the clock,

a chime would

boom

and out would come

the little red

bird on his platform

to sing you

a tune.