To switch the watch
a Swatch a second time, a third,
each face scratched minutely,
or because the date was stuck
I became a traveller in the mall
forever unhappy with a purchase
but returning always unalone
brought there with my wife
who loves me and worries for
the sorrow that ticks away
inside the case of my self-schism
but that’s not all
I go up and offer each broken
or semi-imperfect object to
the kindly merchant of watches
who resembles a small Paul Simon
which is smaller than you might
imagine possible, and while
outside there is London getting
Sunday under a darkening wing
inside it is the timelessness
of some brief caring act,
not entirely due to exchange of
money, and I am in love
and ruined in some parts of inner
workings, a cog that clicks
upon another toothed gear
stymied again, under the magnifying
glass, still unable to be pried free—
sorrow’s just an hour by hour
journey, but in between, there are
seconds as good as before, pretty
good intervals to cling to you and me.