wednesday, april 29

you turn the lock of the password,
the keys rattling in your brain and
fingers moving awkwardly over the buttons
half drunk and half confounded by the
chiclet feel of a commodity laptop

(they make these things so cheap any more
you might as well have one in every room
and spare yourself the walking around and
looking)

you're obsessed with this kind of thing now
with, let's say,
gear
utility objects
socket sets, pocket knives
messenger bags, tail lights,
rolling papers, electrical tape
notebooks and cigarette lighters

you think about getting a watch
like the one you had in jr. high:
a timex ironman triathlon with all
the lap timing features and
about six buttons on it
— a digital watch, unapologetic
for how goddamned ugly it is
how liquid crystal, plastic and
angular

a girl told you once that nobody
worth talking to wears a watch
and you took it to heart
in the hopes that she'd sleep with you
it might have worked
years later she did
but that was a while ago

and now, as you wait
breathing hard beside the cars at
a stoplight on the way to work,
the slowest thing on the road
you wish you could look down at your wrist
and see the beautiful illusion of concrete fact
in those gray segmented numbers
diagramming their microscopic crystal beat

maybe you would watch the seconds roll
and count the beats of your heart
maybe you would think about datestamps and the epoch,
listen to the blood rushing in your ears
and mark the angle of the sun just as
the light changed from red to green.