Off by One

The clocks went back a week ago. The oven didn't. Every evening it tells me it is later than it is,

and every evening I do the sum, take one away, and find an hour I wasn't counting on.

Six degrees, low cloud, dark since five. The soup is only soup. The window hands me back the kitchen.

I could fix it. Two buttons, hold the left one down. I've looked it up. I haven't.

Some night in March the rest of the house will catch up, and it will be right again for no reason of mine.