He kept the old watch
on the nightstand beside his bed,
among his favorite novels
and books of poetry.
Every morning he wound it,
and every night
he checked the hands.
He said it had brought him luck.
He'd worn it through hard winters,
through nights on the streets,
through the funeral
and the long drive home.
Simon and Garfunkel
echoed in his bones.
When the house was quiet,
he sometimes spoke to it,
polished it nightly
until he could see
his reflection.
Then one morning
the hands stopped moving.
He shook it.
Opened the back.
Took it to an old friend
who drank and tinkered with time.
Nothing helped.
For a while
he moved through the days
as if something had been taken
from the world.
His shoulders slumped,
and his hound dog looked worried.
Then spring came.
The Concord grapes
swelled on the vines.
Rain filled the barrel.
His daughter called
just to talk.
That evening
he made walleye for dinner,
fried up with a little
cayenne and cardamom.
He stood at the window
and watched the garden turn green,
dandelions and violets
dotting the yard
like a Jackson Pollock painting.
The watch lay silent
among the books
on the nightstand beside his bed.
For the first time in years,
he let the morning come
without asking it
for anything.
He took the dog out
into the indigo dawn.
-
Author:
Thomas W Case (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 25th, 2026 07:34
- Comment from author about the poem: I am pleased to announce the release of my latest book, Searching for Nod. It is available now on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Searching-Nod-Thomas-W-Case/dp/B0HLMKLS9L/ref=sr_ Here's a link to my YouTube channel where I read my poetry and post videos of my attempts at golf: https://www.youtube.com/@ThomasWCase
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 16
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Cheeky Missy, Kevin Hulme, Tristan Robert Lange, Teddy.15
Offline)
Comments8
My father gave me a gold pocket watch, when it was stolen it was like letting go of my father's hand. I was on my own, had grown up. I no longer needed material things to make me who I was I had become a sanyasi, reached another level. I hear this in this poem, time no longer a restraint one looks beyond to the beauty surrounding one.
"He stood at the window
and watched the garden turn green,
dandelions and violets
dotting the yard
like a Jackson Pollock painting."
Most poetic and descriptive of the admiration of natural beauty. With time no longer the issue the central meaning of the poem to me comes in the statement:
"For the first time in years,
he let the morning come
without asking it
for anything."
Transformation had occurred.
Thank you.
My pleasure Thomas
Im wondering if this is your books intro. Its a great write of a lone man, pocessions, pets, picket fence, land. The man emarking on a self exploratory voyage as time itself stops for him. I really enjoyed it.
Thank you.
Maybe we should all stop for a Moment. Not let Time be a Master. Especially as we get Older.
Enjoyed.
Thanks
My Pleasure.
Hello, Thomas,
Free of an obsession, released from the prison of time, as it were to enjoy the dawning of a new day. You are a master of continuity; your words flow beautifully, bringing the reader effortlessly along to a worthy ending leaving one content. Accolades galore.
Fond regards,
Tony.
Thank you.
The hound dog looking worried broke my heart a little, Thomas…animals know when something in us has gone quiet. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thanks, my friend.
Time can truly be a bastard, I've learnt over the years, a wonderful quietly delivered piece. 🌹
I appreciate you.
💜
Excellent write, Thomas. I have known days when one familiar object carries too much of a person’s history...letting it rest can take real courage. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thanks, my friend.
Cracking piece Thomas if a bit sad but I know how he felt. Time means a lot when you get older. Great work. Regards Owen
Thanks, Owen.
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