The Watchman

The watchman – that is to say the man

who mends watches –

does not look the part.

He looks to be the problem when times are awry.

He has a muscleman’s shoulders

a politician’s paunch

and a mafiosi’s slur of speech.

His cubbyhole must cramp his style.

He does not look you in the eye

and he is careless of his sparse hair.

But nothing is careless

in what his hands are upto.

Beneath the glass attached to his eye

his stubby fingers

are doing things to things you cannot see.

The drawer his stomach grazes is half open

and he reaches in without looking

for the implement he needs

or for the bag of empty tags

to label watches with their people.

The pen has its place across the table

spares are in stacked boxes –

batteries, straps, protective glass, whatnot –

and alarm clocks line the shelves.

But no alarms

in this precisely congested space

that runs like the insides of a watch.

Things are kept as they should be

and here if anywhere

sits the boss of small things. In quiet

ready for you: he is the nub

when ticking needs to be set right.