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.