Watch Shop (a poem)

My hands in pockets with non-ticking watches
Gazing at display of fine shining metals,
Exposed to raw, cool elements
The value they command as complete units
Naked with neither will nor wallet to offer.

The unnamed figure behind the counter
Guarding the fixtures he first fitted
Heated by a cycle of human custom
The potential exchange for paper
Bound by unnecessary expectation for excess.

A selection of faces to glean
Thinking every moment the same
Spread along a clear space within a void
The various tags for all sizes and shapes
Detached straps from wrists without rule.

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