The hands on a clock
are only in sync
twenty-four times a day.
The hands spend one thousand, four hundred, sixteen
minutes a day
racing around the clock,
trying to be together.
The arms on a clock,
like the arms of a son,
do not always mask one another.
Arms on a clock never leave.
Nature’s clock can tell time and kiss fathers’ foreheads
just long enough to leave a spot.
Around the sun-kissed spot is a receding hairline
and wicked-sharp eyebrows a mile away,
just above the dark eyes and weak smile.

Over time, history repeats.

Who knew that just a strong bond could create such similarity?
Soon, the same dark eyes will be found
just to the right,
below a receding hairline;
a replica of December, 1995.
The problem with dates
is that they are in the past
and the strings of time
that hold such father-son relationships together
fray until the ropes of hope
can no longer be held
on both ends.