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
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.