Where It Hurts

Just here, I say, pointing
The tinker opens the door over my heart, peering at the workings, at the clock hands frozen
at 2:30 in the eternal January air.
Can you fix it?
Tempus fugit from this season to the next, he says, best to stand still than to erase footprints
in your haste to get away.
He closes the door and pushes his cart away to find the next broken thing.
Faintly, faintly, a tick, tick, tick