DATA

Joe Lampert could reach his open hand
Into mid-air, clench it shut and find,
Without fail, a chessman in his fist.
His watch was always five minutes fast
His shadow six minutes slow. My mother,
His daughter, told me his childhood friends
Mostly grew up to be gangsters.

FIX-IT

My grandfather Joe could tell why a watch had stopped
By winding it, holding it to his ear and then tapping it --
Three precise taps. After this, the diagnosis:
A bit of grit in a cog wheel or a broken spring
Or a simple desire for attention. He'd ask for a tool --
A needle, say, or a butter-knife or a drop of oil --
Which always proved to be the right one. If people
Had been watches, he and his older daughter
Would've gotten along quite splendidly.

PRECISE

The angels checked their watches
Which they had neglected to wind
Since the Battle of the Crater.
"6:43, exactly," God muttered
As he shrugged into His coat;
"Make a note of it." They left
And the small gods whispered
I might want to wake up.

HERITANCE

In one of my father's stories
A committee votes that God
Does not exist but still
Listens to prayers, does justice,
Shows mercy.

My grandfather made watches
Which kept perfect time
But set his a few minutes fast
So did my mother; so do I.
An alibi ever-ready:
None of I it was; I wasn't there
But five minutes away.