at the 2020 Daytona 500, we watched
a blank screen, inhaled, and waited
after an ambulance cleared the debris
and took him away. Honey, how
do you start this watch?
My fiancé blows out a candle
spilling red wax. It looks
like a knife wound leaking
onto the carpet. Surgically, we
clean the fabric on our knees. A drop
gets on my wooden watch. I take an old
credit card and scrap its face smooth.
Annoyed by its inability to cheat death,
I desperately twist its pin, a soldier
priming a grenade that sounds
like Big Ben ringing in the New Year.
The little hand finally starts ticking. Seconds 
become minutes become hours and my eyes
are glued to its track, watching
the hands chase each other
along their predestined path.