The Time-Stealer

I dread his step outside, his raincoat
always belted, hands fisted into pockets, eyes
searching through glass for time on my wrists

and shelves, the sweep of hands on watches,
alarms, old clocks — white faces trapped
inside a case of wood. Or at the kerb,

a shoulder tilted to my empty car,
waiting for the minutes to grow, his head
dipping to the blink of numbers, a slow

deliberate check. He is insatiable for it.
He will have me give it all to him.
He will have my heartbeats if I let him.

Copyright © 2003 Lynne Rees All rights reserved
from The Pterodactyl's Wing: Welsh World Poetry, edited by Richard Gwyn
Parthian Books/Dufour Editions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission