I am going to freeze this clock, these hands will droop like stagnant breath- something scarred these hands into coma. They levitate behind a plastic frame; the arms stick to that very breath of time. The peeping bird shuts-off its’ back-‘forth routine, and the mother, in her complacent gown, watches the milk become colder while frozen fingers are in limbo inside duty and this eternal pause, cementing her feet to the stance the clock left them. Baby’s mouth is opened without the screech; time quit in the seconds that lie between an attempt and a wail.