Poetry: Falling in Love, for My Mother's Sake
She bought her son a clock, nine to be exact,
each one set inside a metal frame,
each one in a row of three,
each one telling the time of a place she has never been.
She has never been to L.A. or to London,
not to Buenos Aires or to Bangkok,
not to Hong Kong or to Tokyo,
not to Moscow or to Berlin.
She flew to New York once,
to see the room in Queens where he slept,
to see why he was no bigger than a minute,
to see why he'd quit calling home to Tennessee.
She clicked a battery into each clock,
and then she asked her son to find the times on his phone,
and then she asked her son to write her a love story,
and then she asked her son, as she wound each clock, if she could go too,
to a place inside one of the clocks, to a place neither of them has ever been.