I bought a costly German watch last year,
the year my father died. I told myself it
was to mark time—a way to remember before,
and now to live after. He would have never
purchased something like that for himself.
But he did dream of such beautiful things.
I know this because I am my father’s son.
A mutual friend of ours told me years ago,
“You write what your father dreams.”
He told me that in the time before, in the
days when my father’s eyes blazed brilliant
as the stark white indices on the black
face of a German wristwatch like the one
shackled to me now, here in the afterlife.