At 3:33 pm watches explode on wrists,
hands fall to the ground,
new amputees pick up estranged palms,
arms splatter ink like a Ralph Steadman print.
The watchmakers raise their scarred stumps skyward in triumphant revenge,
for they were wrongly de-handed years ago.
A young girl wears her father’s watch that runs one minute slow,
she is in the middle of writing her —
3:34 pm.
