Grandma Beat gave it to me
for my tenth birthday, the dial,
the size of the new ten cent bit,
just right for my narrow wrist.
Thin red second hand jerking
over solid black numbers,
luminous lime on gold
outlined other hands.
Stiff brown leather band
with flimsy buckle. Presented
in a crimson Bullova box,
the only surviving remnant,
watch forgotten in squash
change room long ago.
Box still in fine working order,
now contains badges,
also once worn: The Clash,
No Nukes, Legalise It
and, already obsolete,
a pea-green iPod nano.
Time was on everybody's
hands back then. Wrist ready.
Today digital numbers leap
from mobile phones.
Does it mean anything
to anyone any more
to tap on your naked
wrist interrogatively?
Grandma ran out of time
a year after gifting me.
The old box, having seen
off what it contained
may yet outlive its
worn wearer.
bw
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