I have a necklace in my drawer.

It is a locket that holds a clock.

The clock no longer moves its hands.

I bought in a Philadelphia thrift shop

with a group of friends.

For Sarah’s birthday, she takes us all

into the city, into the thrift shops.

We all bought a necklace with a clock.

I am the only one who still wears mine.

The clock no longer moves its hands.

I used to wear it with the pride of knowing

I could pop it open and tell the time.

Time was in my hands.

I wore time around my throat.

But time cannot be held for long.

It slips by, and leaves tiny brass locket cases.

It slips by, and I am the only one who still wears mine.

I wear it when my neck looks too empty.

I cover my emptiness with an empty clock.

It is still right two times a day.

The clock no longer moves its hands.

It is a beautiful conch shell:

Once home to an animal so rare and strange,

an animal that left or died,

leaving behind this necklace for me.