My Father’s Watch

Waking while the world is still,
staring at my father’s watch from afar,
unwinding, expressing regret since ’46 on the dresser.

It has kept time on heartbreak across oceans —
a father seized by red hands of armies,
a mother by another time zone in her bed;
clasped the hand that clasped an arranged partner,
deranged in troubled times taking trash out;
raised, raging for obedience’s sake, sobbing in the ’70s (sorry thereafter);
betting between beatings, blowing money on football scores.

Saying my father’s watch has witnessed many changes
is an understatement. Undressing heart surgery scars;
immersed in rivers, fatherless, fathoming future life; measuring medicine doses —
ticking broken beaten eating sleeping diabetes.

Sometimes, its malignant mocking mechanisms
makes me wonder why we clock,
just for one day, for everything to
stop.

© 2017 The Wasted Love Song
In response to: napowrimo, day twelve (alliteration & assonance)

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