Her Broken Ticking Clock
After lacing up her worn shoes, she fingers the cartoon
below the zipper — a kangaroo with a cub in tow.
But because she doesn’t want to see the joey hanging
with his paws out, flapping around
in the furry pouch, she sees the number four:
the intersection at the tip of the number
where the reared back ears would go;
the length of the numeral’s line,
his neck not ready for traveling dangerous speeds,
and because he is young and gurgling, he has yet to learn
how to keep it straight and still while his mother barrels
past earth. At the side intersection, the farthest right,
his nose. And, from this angle, he looks just like her.