This Apple Watch Is Clearly the Boss of Me

"Solo" and "Perennials," two poems by Phoebe Amanda

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 
I’m back 
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. 
Inveterate habit, 
this reincarnation, 
these perennials 
popping up through the snow. 
Don’t they know 
we abandoned them once?

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