Hobo Moon

The hands that once pointed in every direction
Have failed to move since she gave it away,
And though the band is much to tight,
He still wears it every day.
It helps him to remember that moonless night.
That night he tried to make her stay.
Losing himself in his own reflection,
He remembers the words that she used to say,
The sweet reverberation,
Trembling from her lips in exasperation.
Eyes lost in a distant fading memory,
Like fog dissipating with the arrival of the day,
He stares at his watch,
Waiting,
For those hands
Hoping,
To continue
Stuck in the past,
Their ritualistic dance.
Those hands.
Salvador Dalí’s painting Persistence of Memory, 1931.