With no adorn­ment allowed
In surgery, I'm wear­ing two watches.
The first watch is Mother's on a plain leather band.
It ties my wrist to another century.

The sec­ond watch, a gold and sil­ver Seiko
With navy face, returned to me
From a lover, a pale copy
Of the Rolex finally achieved. I wait

For the surgeon's call, alone, in a vast room
Offering inane mag­a­zines and vend­ing machines.
It's Sunday night
With snow freez­ing every road.

"What is your birth date?"
September 25, 1918, Mother rasped,
Looking to me to answer the rest of the pre-op
Test when the nurse asked, "And why are you here?"