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For years, they have lived
like mice, grey and quiet.
Behind the blank face,
Behind the scissor -pincer hands.

they make a home among
the wheels and dials, the weight
and pulley inside my head.

At night, a phantom shares
my bed, the faint rise and fall
of her breath, the porcelain
skin cold to the touch.

The clock strikes one I rise
to watch them ascending
and descending like angels
on a ghost ladder.

Three blind nines:
Cut off their tails
with a folding knife.
They all become zeroes.
the hour is at hand

What a fascinating take...I take the mice to be memories, and associated with the phantom that shares the N’s bed— the phantom someone once close to the speaker.

Fresh imagery as well as a fresh way to tell a familiar story... very creative. A big thumb’s up.

I like the sinister turn at the end, the attempt to deal with the past, with these dreadful memories.

Of course, I have maybe misread this... even so, the tone achieved in this poem is remarkable.

Thanks. Bob. I like a little dark sometimes

I like the last stanza very much.And also the penultimate stanza.

I see an analogy to the famous rhyme " Hickory Dickory Dock".
Enjoyed the whole poem, Ken.

Siva. Thank you. Would love to hear more about your book and where to get it in Palaver

Meenas. That's what it is. Plus Three Blind Mice. I tried to put them both in there. Thank you

Hi kenneth

"Behind the blank face,
Behind the scissor -pincer hands"

^^ kinda Tim Burton

Behind the blank face
and Edward scissor hands.


like the morph of 9 to a 0
by way of the old *tale*




Michael (MV)

Thank you Michael. I didn't think about Edward scissor hands, but appreciate the similarity. Old tale indeed.