My grandfather, a vet,
gave me a watch.
A crazy watch.
Sometimes the hand swept
the face in a disturbing
bblur. Other times
it seemed to hang,
suspended. I’d
shake it then, at least,
I used to, until
he visited and closed
his ancient spotted
hand over mine. “Don’t!”
he cried. “That watch counts not
time but lives.” I blinked.
He went on. “The hand
counts: one life, one tick.
I carried it at the Somme.
The breeze from 16 turns
per second dried my tears.
Your father carried it to
Buchenwald, where cold
winds burned his cheeks.”
He opened his hand.
We watch the hand creep
then, ah, alas, speed up.
I shivered in the cool.
“Now it’s yours,” he said.
“Um,” I said. “Thank you?”
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