Second Hand {a poem}

The second hand...
Which one is that again?
I am five, maybe six.
The clock has two hands
but they don't look like hands to me.
They look like arrows maybe,
each pointing at a number.
One of the arrows is longer
and the other is shorter.
I have my very own Timex watch
from the department store
on Hertel Avenue.
I wear it proudly while I play
in the backyard but still wait
to hear my mom swing open
the screen door, calling me
inside for dinner.
The second hand. I look down
at my own hands – the first,
the second. I hold my arms out
in front of me and try to measure.
They are the same length, I think.
Hours, minutes, seconds.
Dinner, bedtime. Rainbow wallpaper.
Rainbows are easier to read
than watch faces.
I sleep with my watch on.
I wake up looking at its hands,
its numbers. Five, six, seven, eight,
I go to my mom's dance rehearsals
and sit on the studio floor watching
all of those older girls in leotards.
They are so grown up.
I like days like this when I get to go
to school with her instead
of my own school.
I decide I don't really care
what time it is anyway.
My watch goes through the wash.
I cry.
The hands are gone now,
the numbers, too,
the whole face missing.
But when I hold it close to my ear,
it's still ticking away, unbothered
by my carelessness.