Touch Down

The jeweler says he’ll fix my watch while I wait. So, I wait.

“No, no. Take a lap.”

He gestures out of his office

and towards the showroom.

“We’ve got some fantastic new arrivals. Take your time.”

I didn’t pay for my parking,

chanced it.

I loop a lap no bigger than a hula hoop’s journey

from hip bone to hip bone.

“You can’t have seen everything. Do it again.”

What is this, gym class?

I expand my orbit. Land right back at his door.

The jeweler heaves a sigh of defeat.

“Where are you from?”

“Nashville,” I say.

“Nashville, eh?

Well, I’m sure you didn’t watch it

but your team had a big win last night.”

A bold claim from a man with an emerald on his pinky.

“What gave me away,” I ask,

“as someone who did not watch the game last night?”

Now he scowls. I’ve cornered him.

Don’t trot a draw bridge in tap shoes, I think.

“It’s just,” he explains,

you have such a strong interest in jewelry.”

“As, I imagine, do you.”