Keeping Good Time

The band snapped and I haven't taken it in.

The watch has been on the counter all week,

face up, still running. I begin

to pick it up most mornings, then seek

some excuse to set it back.

She gave it to me at the airport—

said she wanted to see me wearing it. The lack

of what I gave that visit. Short

with her over nothing. Three days,

and I was somewhere else in my head.

She put the watch in my hand. The haze

of the gate, the announcement. She said

she'd feel better knowing.

Two years later she was gone.

The watch was on my wrist. The growing

weight of what I hadn't done

while I still could—I wore it

to the service, wore it for a year,

until the band went. I store it

on the counter now. It's clear

on the time, every time I pass.

The dried ring of a coffee cup beside it.

She wanted to see me wearing it. The glass

face of it, still accurate. I ride it

out, each pass. Still right.

Every time. That's the hard

part. Still going. The light

on the counter. The regard

it has for no one.