Running out on words

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I glance at my watch
the straps tightly gripping themselves to my wrist
as if I were crossing the streets with my mother.
Its face is square and unconsenting,
its teeth gritting, a golden tooth pegged inward
like an over-bitten incisor.
I see its hands barely grasp
the son and daughters that lie and wait,
the hours, the dates, the wrinkles on its porcelain face.
They betray the intentful gaze.
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I glance at my watch,
among the three hands, I am the stickly one
that runs around in circles and skips over the studs;
I am the one counting the numbers down
and breathing the stale air within the tempered glass.
The new hour begins
always three point fourteen seconds precise,
the minutes always in advance
the minutes I'm always late.
This timepiece submerged 5 atms under water
its face is denying the distilling degrees of agony.
It will never be immersed, the son and daughters
that keep running in their own little space.
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I glance at my watch
so much for the humid gains and my waiting,
so much since the sweat combines with water, the water
slowly seeping through the tributaries on my palm.
This takes too much of my time.
I'll have to take it off and not be so consenting of this levity.
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