Watching You Sleep

Image by Rudy and Peter Skitterians from Pixabay

by Vincent R. Pozon

Today I wear a wristwatch,
requiring minding and winding,
love and thumb and forefinger,
There are no blinking digits
but a second hand that slowly sweeps,
it does not dice or mince time;
as a chef slices onions paper thin,
there is no bounce or wiggle
to mark each tick, it does not park
itself on every number.

It soars across the face of the dial,
lingers, as love would, as your hand
above the head of the woman
you married and now watch asleep,
palm loitering an inch above
grazing the cheek, thumb above brow,
above smoothening the frown,
hand above stroking the back
as you wonder what inhabits
the dream, ruffles the breathing.

You send what little comfort
there is in the thick, hot air,
you direct love to her face
with the large abaca fan
but ever so lightly lest
the spines of the dry, pale leaves
crackle and disturb the sleep
of the tired woman lying
beside you in a single bed
with a tilt, flushed against the wall,
asleep on a flattened mattress
in this dark room in the hungry years.

You peer at her face moistened
with sweat, and your palm hovers,
like the second hand aching
to touch the face of a clock.