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.