At the Watch Store
Time is broken
Three men bend over desks
fitted with wells for screws and discs.
Wearing headlights and magnifiers
they ponder minuscule pieces
and try to put time together.
I wait for a new watch battery
and stare at the wall of clocks
each stopped at a different hour—
the familiar oval one transports me
into my kitchen on West Park:
Mother sautés Sunday chicken
and I set the table, then go play.
I hear Mother calling me home.
A time-traveler to the future,
I've lost my now
and can't find my way back.
Time is broken.
|
December 23, 1962
At age twenty-two
I parked my old Dodge,
and sat there for the longest time
imagining Christmas morning
when I’d see my three-year-old
uncover her own stove
made from an end table,
doors added, burners painted,
and discover tiny plastic pans,
sunny-side up eggs, and a spatula.
I wanted to unwrap that moment,
and live two childhoods at once.
You, Me, and We
We like these plums, I say.
We could plant a tree, he says.
We could landscape the yard, I say.
We could go to a nursery, he says.
If only "We" lived with you and me, I say.
|
