Audio
Credits
From And in Here, the Menagerie, Templar Poetry, 2007
Wristwatch
​
Buckled to your wrist that first evening,
I thought this strap would hold as long as time.
​
Your arm was support; I felt expensive;
I felt your pride in just having me there.
​
Then, I still spoke. Now I only ever tut,
constantly, quietly and mostly to myself.
​
And your silence on the subject of me
is like cold metal pressed on warm flesh.
​
Now cracks are gaping at the buckle's pin.
I could drop softly to the tarmac any day
​
and I might. And would you notice?
Comfort has worn your senses thin.
​
Sure you glance down at me when you need to,
but all you see is time passing –
​
I remember how you used to say, “look at her:
what a beauty,” and they’d watch my face light up.