The sports-watch you left in my room two Sundays ago
beeped every five minutes.
I pressed all its buttons and it stopped.
Then it beeped again.
In the same manner your wrist pulsed
in my memory's thumb
as I masturbated my trick B in the dance club’s church belfry;
pulsed; stopped; then it pulsed again
in the same manner as the gun
that kept going off at Virginia Tech,
stopped to scan a room, swagger to the next, or think a crazy thought,
then it kept going,
with this one difference that your watch,
an intricate piece of electronics,
for no reason to do with me,
stopped beeping finally.
Plan for this poem-in-progress