Father time

You bought me a pocket watch before you were born.

One last indulgence to mark the solemnity of fatherhood.

Polished it was; never bismirched by fingerprints.

Measured ticks marked out your last trimester.

 

You arrived early and turned nights into days and minutes into hours. The watch marked

out your feeds; I like a pallid conductor signalling the sudden arrival of your appetite.

I showed you your timepiece , penduluming it above your inky eyes,

skimming your hands and toes that conjured invisible angels.

 

At three years and a half you fling open the drawer to find it; eyes fierce in your hunt.

The cover is gone (you soon saw to that), and the surface begrimed with greasy

fingermarks.

I love you for this. I adore you, because within a matter of months you’ve got it all worked

out. The watch is meaningless. It is what we do with the time marked that matters.

 

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