Seconds coming

He winds it as soon as he wakes:
That rusted dial on the silver watch
That has long lost its minute hand
And may soon lose its hour too.
Only the seconds tick away strong.
“No matter, no matter,” he says
And winds it again every morn.
I ask him why, though I know the why.
And like always, he shrugs and smiles.
“Why let it die when it can be saved?”
And like always, I nod to myself and then
At the garlanded portrait behind him
Of the man who used to wear it
And of the woman’s beside that
Who had once told me long ago
How the ticking of the silver watch
Was all the memory they had of him
After he decided to hang himself
While his teenage son slept inside.