Missing Wrist Watch
It's a telling sign, this quiet Sunday night,
Dining out by myself, again,
That my left wrist is missing its watch —
A telling oversight, indeed,
Intimation, premonition, prophecy of days nigh,
When I'll begin to unwind time,
Let it run backwards while not running down,
Deliver my spirit of sixty-eight years
To zones younger and younger,
Where my soul will grow older without growing old.
A metamorphosis is in the cosmic clockwork.
Pressing my right thumb to my opposite wrist,
Locating my throbbing pulse,
I foresee my life unregulated by seconds and minutes,
Calibrating the hour of its ageless future — now.
08/02/09 - (1)
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