The inappropriate wrist watch
does not tell the time;
it slyly suggests.
Like the acquaintance not respectful of personal space,
the wrist watch takes your arm--
obsequious and demanding all at once.
The inappropriate wrist watch leers and fidgets,
making "two forty-seven p.m."
sound vaguely filthy and perverted.
In addition to the time, the inappropriate wrist watch offers the date.
The little number sits there,
like a room key from some misadventure drenched in shame.
If thy wrist watch offends thee, pluck it off!
However, then there is the problem of the tan line,
pale and not meant to be seen, like flab.
The inappropriate wrist watch is the admirer one cannot discourage--
the one who shows up at the door at odd hours
wearing shoes with mouths, and clicking its teeth like a second hand.
How, then, to avoid being lured into depravity and ruin
by one's inappropriate wrist watch?
Ask not for whom the tinny chime tolls--
it tolls for thee.