Pocket Watch

You are cold.

Your copper design-work provokes anger

in some and disgust in others.

Your body so intricately molded with Asian characters

opens to reveal a face hiding within a face.

Yours is red, while the second is pale.

Your numbers are golden, and

your hands are dead white.

A battered chain descends from your body,

cold as the whole of you.

You are broken, non-functioning,

so the woman in the army store told me.

So why do your hands move when

I hold you in my palm?

Mao Ze Dong's little hand waves

back and forth at me from in your face.

But it ceases to quiver as I set you down upon the desk.


Written over a year ago. I have a Mao Ze Dong pocket watch that isn't supposed to function, but it does randomly.