My Grandfather’s Only Watch
A poem
The pocket watch, rusted and gold.
Glass cracked —
a reddish tint remains.
Ticking —
like the sound of leaves rustling,
crunching beneath one’s heavy, cold feet.
A relic from my grandfather,
from when he was a kid —
ancient, submerged in dust.
Found in the streets of a worn,
lifeless town when my grandpa
was ten. I give it light,
bringing life back to it.
He took it out to sea,
navigating his ship,
humming like a bee.
Now worn and distressed,
I carry this pocket watch
wherever I go.
I take it when I leave,
ice skating on a frozen pond
through wind and snow and ice,
Not letting go of it
when I catch my breath
to breath.
And all I can hear,
drumming in my head,
is the softness of the watch,
ticking, ticking, ticking.
