The Watch

The Watch

Six foot three, basking in tawny heat,
sunk in his lounger, spring to September.

His face bakes like earth.
Chest hairs slice the sweat beads.

The black leather watch (he never forgot
to unstrap) ticks beside his ghetto blaster.

Cobalt eyes, silver thick hair, dentured smile,
arms folded under the crest of his chest,

he poses for fall's final mould.

*

Later, after the black skid, spin and deep
tip of the freshly polished blue Caddy;

after the crunch of skull on the dashboard;
even after the front page photo and headline:

my father's watch, still ticking,
unzipped from the O.P.P.'s plastic.

No cracks, glass smooth to touch.
Dry mud flakes sprinkle like ashes

on to my opening hand.