It was my father’s—
the only thing of worth or history.
Patina-ed stainless, oblong,
always needing winding,
keeping nearly time,
and filled with memories we had not spent.
Hamilton, seventeen jeweled,
a present on the old man’s marriage;
passed not by testament but default
from undertaker to son,
who, in this night table drawer,
keeps my covenant with one task,
one, each night’s prayer:
to wind, check time, and shed no tears
for memories we never spent.
