If your whole life is shit, at least you can have a decent watch on.

Something weighty, something made of
nice things, beautiful things, which united together create a
single thing, that

say, if you had children, at some point
would be such a decent thing
they couldn’t help but want to
inherit, this thing:

The unblinking smooth,
crystal face.

Soft wheat-in-sunlight gold
karats.

And with a matte finish that says

This watch-wearer’s no magpie, no show-off, no all
you’ve ever wanted
was this:

Something well-made.

The clasp that folds under and makes
a reassuring click that can’t be heard,
but felt in the wrist

nothing bending, nothing jammed, nothing you can ever foresee prying at
with the edge of a dirty fingernail, nothing implying

your fingernails could ever be dirty,
could need
tending to —

A second hand that will not wobble, never shakes
each second a smooth transition
to the next,
nothing abrupt,
alarming

Nothing to see here.

A dial that pulls out just so
to set the time
so that, at least twice a year
(more often if you fly long distances)
you are allowed just this moment
of perfection:

Your thumb and forefinger pressed against small,
rounded edges
providing ample traction without discomfort
a gliding, a whir

and now you are suspended, in complete control, time has stopped —
this time is up to you.

Spring forward.
Fall back.

All you’ve ever asked for
was for a thing that would last,
a thing accountable for something, for once, a thing you could count on

Measuring the minutes of your shit life (tick tick tick)

Just one click
separates you.