Her Father's Watch

An anti-war poem

At 3:33 pm watches explode on wrists,

     hands fall to the ground,

     new amputees pick up estranged palms,

     arms splatter ink like a Ralph Steadman print.

The watchmakers raise their scarred stumps skyward in triumphant revenge,

     for they were wrongly de-handed years ago.

A young girl wears her father’s watch that runs one minute slow,

     she is in the middle of writing her —

                                                                       3:34 pm