The Pivot

I found this watch in a drawer of grit.

The leather’s cracked and the battery’s dead.

I don't think I’m quite the right fit

for any of the things I once said.

I try to pull the strap to the hole

where it used to sit so heavy and tight.

But there’s a gap that eats at my soul

while I’m standing here in the light.

The knob of the bone is a lonely peak,

pushing through skin like a buried stone.

The frame of a man is getting weak,

and I’m mostly just made of bone.