The Landscapers

The cups ache a little in the cupboard
when the milk spoils miles from the saucer.

There is nothing worth saving, save for
everything that doesn’t move.  Today

nobody died, yet every object offers its condolences.
A door swung open sounds like a field mouse crying,

the clock chimes a second too early
for the second time – my grandfather’s clock –

The Grandfather Clock.  The still-dead man who lives
inside has been calling all day to say

nothing important – just that the world is always sorry
only a little early

like the lawnmower weeping a prayer
outside at 8 am.

The landscapers take to their machines,
but we don’t hear them.

by Matthew Daddona

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