Telling Time

Some nights, I find myselflistening to the faucet drip,the clock running on its own time,refusing to slow down or wait.I wrap myself in the quietof this old house, the new paintalready dirty around every fixture,scrapes like bruises from the backsof stained patio chairs,peeling white, leaving our legsgrid-marked when we rise.The refrigerator alternately humsand chokes and I wonder if you listento it where you are. The milesbetween Boston and Simpsonvillespan decades, crumbling highways,mountain passes, loss. I rememberso little of our early years herein America, old photographs workinglike flash cards in grade school.You took me to my first bar,a dark Chinese lounge with yellowlanterns and dark interiors.We sat on the bamboo chairsand you drank beer and toldyour sixteen year old daughterfor the first time that you loved herand all I could do was stareat that coconut clock and thinkabout how you taught meto tell time, both of us watchingthe blacks hands of the poolroom clock,one small, fat and slow,the other making rings around it.