Cliché

Overnight, he became 
a horse she could no longer lead 
no matter how thirsty. 

His heart had become as numb 
as a stopped grandfather 
clock erect 
and alone in the hall. 

Her hands were sore from winding 
yet she would 
sit cross-legged 
on the wood floor studying his face 

until well after midnight 
waiting for the hands to move 
balls to drop – 
a chime, a gong, a tick tock. 

Tomorrow she would air out his dirty 
laundry, shake the ants from 
his pants 
fold them neatly, all thumbs. 

Little did she know, she had been 
barking up the wrong tree. 
It would have been best 
to let sleeping 

dogs lie.