James Thomas Hazard
Clocks on walls, hands in every direction
As if time went on but didn’t matter
On velvet, under glass, a selection
Of watches and rings of gold and silver
My father, and the man who owns the shop
Talk of springs, gears, and tiny adjustments
For so long I wonder if time could stop,
A winding down of finished instruments
Outside the Rambler, a clean white beauty,
Waits for us, engine still ticking to cool
The car my father drove, in his hurry,
Off the lot’s curb. Flying. Brand spanking new!
He stops to strike a paper match and smoke
I long for the tingle of that sweet leaf,
The vapor of witches’ brew in my throat,
For now my most fervent, childhood belief
“Did you see numbers on the watchman’s arm?
Maybe it’s time to tell you what they mean.”
And he does. Camps, uniforms, and a swarm
Of skeletal, starving, hollow-eyed men
The watchman too, in the buffeted crowds
Sets in motion the measurements of time
While I, ignoring the gathering clouds,
Think the day will be pleasant, fair and fine