In a Watch Gallery

The watches stare at me as if their smug

faces hold riddles: hands frozen in 10-2 smiles
as the rich foreign tai-tais sauntering by
too eager to flaunt a purse or high ass.

Some watches contort as if in vain
of expressing human emotions: 4-8 sadness,
9-3 bummer. I catch one in the act
of sidling me a nasty grin: sitting still

for hours, luring a tai-tai to open up
her yearning, out credit card. The long
hours have taught my colleagues the art
of statue kung-fu: holding in paused-play our smiles

for loudmouthed Chinamen and Texan countrywomen.
One colleague chooses a watch, breaks it out
of mocking trance, winds it back to grin again,
like our slow bonds forged over smiles on aching lips.