Time Has a Color

The watch repair man slid it under the loop,

said it'd been exposed to moisture.

I looked through the glass

and saw my own eye magnified,

saw the green bloom

spreading like something alive

across the copper backing.

Not rust.

That's what I wanted to call it,

something clean,

something that sounds like aging.

But patina sounds intentional,

like the color is supposed to be there,

like it's beautiful in the way

old things are supposed to be.

It isn't.

It's corrosion.

It's the metal giving up.

It's what happens when water gets in

and stays in

and you don't notice

until someone shows you

through magnification.

I paid forty dollars

to replace the battery,

watched him install it,

told him not to worry about the back.

It keeps time anyway,

he said.

The color doesn't matter.

But I notice it now.

Every time I check the hour,

I remember what's happening underneath.

I remember the green rivers.

I remember the way

beautiful things

are just destruction

we haven't named right yet.