A watch. An old one used to hanging from the black silver satin pocket of a grandfather, swinging when he walked; or plumb in the black silver waistcoat pocket of a grandfather, sliding with dignity, infinitessimally, imperceptibly, from side to side in the dark as he rolled slightly in his old walk.

But the back is buckled.

I push the buckled edge down, trying to even it up, make it flush; but the other edge pops up. I continue this for some time, finally trying to put equal pressure on both edges. When it suddenly occurs to me that I haven’t heard  it ticking. To make sure it’s working, and worth all this trouble, (maybe it’s old and dead, the buckling a sign it’s succumbed to the pressures of time, foreign forces thought
tamed twisting it awry from its perfection).