He discovered // what Ponce pondered // it scared him the scars // without use-of blade // he had whittled to core // found some time // this modern-day's discoverer looked within // now sat unafraid // pain slowing hard his hands no younger, smaller, but those hands – o' (the) clock – not moving. wound up. no battery. he would. wind tighter. were he could, tik- tok? not now. he heard stop. almost ached when it tumblesaulted. backwards. strained. look-listened. with fine ears. without hair. lup-dup? thump- dump? that word, back as a boy hurt from its sound, smelly locker-room cheer. damn the nickname: thump dump. He fogged the mirror of time, still breathing thank God, jogged ran lifted kicked, lost weight, yoga chant meditation prayer and prayer. No music, just a note. Of sound: the clock's tok. What tricked it this time, time this morning, of all days? Ah yes, they shared birthdays. He read yesterday. That great, not-so explorer, lost out there, falling in jungles, bathing in seas, always searching and cleansing, drinking and washing his bones skinny. This one, he'd already outlived the man many times' lives over, saw his eternal fat tomb yesterday San Juan or Havana? some big cathedral that little cavern all empty but stinking of too heavy, time.
R. P. Singletary is a lifelong writer and a native of the southeastern United States, with work appearing or forthcoming in Literally Stories, Litro, Teleport, Bumble Jacket Miscellany, CafeLit, JONAH, Ancient Paths Christian Literary, Flora Fiction, Stone of Madness, Orion’s Beau, Microfiction Monday, Lost Lake Folk Opera, and elsewhere.