Patriarch Poem by Matthew Coombe

Today I was in the kitchen
sitting at the table
watching the steam rise
from the boiling pan of potatoes
rattling on the stove.

And for no reason I can think of,
I began to recall something he used to say
whenever the we felt the serpents of life
pushing under the doors,
slowly filling every room.

Today is the tomorrow
that you worried about yesterday
and all is well, he would say.

The boiler fired, the grill warmed
and the steam continued to rise
as I remembered how he wore his watch.
Always to the inside.

Not because it was the style of the time,
but because, he said,
the steady pulsing rhythm
under his skin
somehow ensured that it kept perfect time,
never missed a single beat.