Off the Clock
July 1 2016


The sleeves of his fine dress shirt
are rolled to the elbow.
As if hard work
doesn’t scare him.
As if he’s just like the rest of us. 

A big Rolex
strapped to a thick powerful wrist.
Its heavy bevelled glass.
Its capable hands, unembellished dial.
The manly heft
of solid gold.

On my graduation
I too received a watch.
Not a Rolex, but a nice time-piece nevertheless.
As if to imply
continuity, sobriety
things that are made to last. 
As if to signal 
the steady passage of time
at such a telling inflection in life. 

So while no one needs a watch these days
we wear them still.
An analogue face.
Escapements, bearings, gears
tiny jewelled works
mechanically whirring away.
In calculated  displays 
of extravagance, excess.
The way a ram’s horn, a lion’s mane
signify substance, status
strength.

And a woman’s watch
she wears on formal occasions,
its thin platinum chain, small rectangular case
adorning her finely boned wrist.
Which she demurely turns
exposing her tender inner arm;
a touch of scent
where quick warm blood 
lies directly under the skin.

Watch, unclipped,
wrist, taken.
Heels kicked-off
black frock unzipped.

No counting time
no minding clocks tonight.

The more useless the watch, the more pretentious.  The advertising makes this clear:  they are marketed as signifiers of status, not as utilitarian devices. Nevertheless, they carry the gravitas and reassurance of tradition. They mark rites of passage. They imply a lifestyle that is more aspirational than real. How deep will one ever really need to dive with a fine timepiece strapped to one’s wrist? 

I saw the usual Rolex ad, and all this came to mind. I thought of manly men, who can rock a substantial watch with style. (I’m self-conscious about my small wrists, and have never felt a watch flattered me.) I thought of politicians, who pose with their sleeves rolled up. I thought of extravagance and status and display. I thought of the anachronism of this mechanical device in our digital age:  a conflation of the meticulous craftsmanship of an earlier time with the great industrial works of the 19th century -- like steam locomotives and elaborate iron fabrications. And I thought of delicately removing her watch, like an act of emancipation from  time. Perhaps prostitutes never take their watches off. After all, you’re on the clock. But otherwise, it seems unbecoming to make love with a  woman who is nude except for her watch. How incongruous it looks on her naked body!

The sudden turn at the end occurred to me just as abruptly as it appears in the poem. The watch led my eye to her delicate wrist --  exposed wrist supine, relaxed hand limply extended -- and I pictured her dabbing a touch of perfume there:  a “pulse point” or “diffusion zone”, as cosmetologists would call it. This open hand seemed like an invitation, and so it went. As usual, I began the poem with no idea where it would take me or how it would end. So I’m as surprised by this as I think the reader will be. And gratified, as well:  the ending is cheeky and mischievous, like a little conspiratorial wink between the reader and me.