Pocket Watch

I keep a pocket watch,
meticulously polished
and
insistently checked,
in my left breast pocket.

There is lives,
And on it ticks,
the soft clicks a reminder
of its continuous ticking
lasting far past the heart
that beats just below.

Toxically clean,
a faint scent of acetone drifts
on the wind as I walk pass,
head down and in a hurry.

I retreat quietly, gripping
the watch I rub in circles,
counter clockwise and
in compulsion,
an absent minded fidget
that helps panicked time pass,
it’s melodic clicks a
centering metronome.

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