Seconds before they lowered my father’s
casket into the ground, the boyish-handed
man from the crackerjack funeral home team
directed me to place my boutonniere on the lid.
I did. But he didn’t see me strip my metaphorical
watch and place it there too. I doubt anyone did.
I’m learning now to live on fatherless time—a
zone that knows nothing of designations such
as Mountain or Central or Greenwich Mean.
Time’s told here by the luminescence of intent.
The only ticking I must pay attention to comes
from my metaphorical but also literal chest as
my father’s ghost voice says “This is your time now.”