I might have mistaken the pocket
watch in your palm for a stone,
only four Roman numerals
marking the face you keep
firmly eclipsed with its latch.
You said it doubled as a compass
when its previous owner
moonlighted as a magician.
He wore an amulet made
of seahorses kissing the ends
of each other’s tails.
After retirement, he kept
his day job as a custodian.
Early some mornings, he walked
through the halls of his labyrinth,
a step-ladder tucked under
one arm, a squeegee
held in his teeth like a knife.