This Apple Watch Is Clearly the Boss of Me
My Apple Watch is my conductor,
tells me to stand when I need standing,
reminds me to breathe when I forget,
vibrates when it’s time to turn
on Main Street, my hands on the wheel.
I pass Osprey nests in the Audubon.
My Apple Watch is a grade-A listener,
and I sing to it as I drive through Westport.
I am my Apple Watch’s eyes, describing
all that I see: stone walls crumbling,
a farmer on his smartphone, three cows
next to a green-black barn,
a dahlia nursery, $5 to cut your own poms.
My Watch chirps to me. My package
has been delivered.
While we hike
to the graffitied World War II Lookout Towers,
My Apple Watch counts my steps,
and I teach it how to find the Honeysuckle’s
sweet dew drop, how to smash a Rosehip
to collect the seeds for tea.
My package is a body pillow.
We stop at an ice cream shack,
and I get two scoops of Blackberry,
both for me.
My Apple Watch has 5 bars,
but somebody is yet to call.
The winter flattened
our flowers, leaving
proud stalks as straws
for Earth to suck.
They always come back.
Our winter gardens,
the defrosting of frozen leaves
like TV dinners.
Such loyal followers,
pushing with alacrity
the words love me
as a white crocus
this time, like a fragile
china cup sticky
and filled with honey,
though last year I thought
you were what: a rock,
a rose, a dewy lover
who woke with April sun.
popping up through the snow.
Don’t they know
we abandoned them once?