"If you measure time
By the ticking of this watch--
Note its shiny brass casing
And the intricate faultiness,"
(The second hand is sweeping backwards)
"Of its Swiss-Taiwanese works..."

He swings it back and forth slowly
On its matching chain, as if he thinks
Hypnotism will distract you
Where sleight-of-hand has failed.

"Then yes, it has been quite a while,
A few rivers, a few sand dunes,
The falling of an empire or six..."

"Oh, please," you snort,
Knocking his hat down over
His wide reflecting eyes.

"What? What did I say?"
His innocence astounds, infuriates.

"As if sand and water
Mean anything to you
But more candyfloss at Brighton Beach.
As if you measure time
At all, let alone
By that refugee from a white rabbit's pocket,
As if it passes for you at all."

His narrowed eyes, murky blue and suddenly
Holding in them no image of you,
Are shadowed by the brim
Of his cockeyed hat.
He touches your hair, and you shrink from the heat
Of his pale fingers,
As much as you've wanted
That cool, imagined weight on your skin.

"If you measure time,"
He says slowly, as measured
By the ticking of a double pulse,
Looking anywhere but at you,
At your wide reflecting eyes,
"By other means..."

"Yes?" you say, "Yes?"
His eyes and hair and skin
Unbearably bright.
He says,
Soft and sad and filled with a terrible joy,

"Your hair has grown three and a half inches.
Your sneakers are wearing out.
Your blue jeans have faded,
Your Italian has improved,
And you have a new line
Beneath your left eye."

He turns and walks away,
Swinging the watch on its fob.

"Can't you just have birthdays
Like everyone else?" you shout.
You're still waiting for him to laugh.

by Mad Poetess

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