Tell Time

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His wristwatch is the athletic kind,

heavy chrome,

thick black rubber strap,

waterproof to 100 meters,

seems like a chore to lug around.

Do you dive? I ask,

surmising the answer.

We are standing in line 

at the bank waiting for a teller

because the ATM screen says

"Temporarily Out of Order."

He looks up 

as if he'd just heard 

a bubble pop,

takes a yawning breath.

I like the style, he says.

There's a box 

of my old wristwatches

somewhere in a closed drawer. 

I'd worn them proudly.

Sporty ones and elegant ones

rectangular with gold roman numerals 

and leather bands, Japanese-made

silver ones with numberless faces 

that lock to the wrist with a snap

like handcuffs.

I think of buildings

with clocks built into them

before anyone carried 

personal timepieces

when we walked in the streets

with heads lifted,

 

and classroom clocks

moon-like and gray above 

the teacher

that made a 50-minute lesson 

feel like days, 

springtime's window slightly ajar 

chirping in the bushes,

the shrieks of friends in the yard 

at early recess,

the jealousy -

I remember learning

to tell time

that first intimation 

of my own power.

The watch doesn't actually work, he offers,

battery needs changing but

I'm too lazy,

holds up fingers

like a wilting flower

to show me

dial hands

       

motionless.

My heart pounds.

We're all just clocks, I say,

waiting for the alarm

to go off.

Next!