Son and Clock
My son sits as though Buddha,
on the minute hand of the office clock
Pea-sized head, legs the length
of matchstick. It is him by the sharp
slope of his nose. Each time I check
to see how swiftly time has slipped
into the pit of unremembered history
he ages. Those plump-with-life lips
tightly drawn like a closed money pouch,
and the solid stance of untested youth
bent-double. His legs like twigs in
a hammock. The hour is only three.
An excellent write, wonderfully descriptive. Enjoyed the read very much!