I found your old
wrist watch
amongst your things;
strap worn, unstitched,


the face of the watch
stopped at a given time,
metal touched with grime.
Don't know when


you wore it last,
but I guess your being
still tingles along the vibes,
despite the years gone by.


I wonder if you
chopped up your day
by it, wonder what hours
you set aside for play,


what for work or sleep?
You're dead now, so that
information will have to keep,
the hours spent, the moments


slipped by in the blink
of a human eye, the ticking
watch ticking off
the time allotted you,


your span set out,
the final year
mapped out maybe,
for none to know or see.


I hold your watch,
allow the sense of you
to come through
the metal workings,


silver cast, leather strap;
the sense of you
pulsing as I wear it
briefly on my wrist;  


the back of the watch
and my skin touching
as if kissed. I will put
the wrist watch away,


in some drawer, for
another, some day,
but it is you, my son,
that is wanted, that’s missed.


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