The Backward Running Timepiece

Antoinette F. Winstead

October 22, 2021

The old man lived from right to left.

Born withered and worn, seasoned and wise, cane in gnarled, arthritic hand, he progressed.

The watch on his shriveled, liver-spotted wrist, ticking down time -- tock-tick -- in reverse.


The milky film concealing his cynical brown eyes, clearing with each tock-tick of passing time.

The hunched curve of his shoulder and back, straightening,

gaining him feet, not mere inches.


The naked pitted gums of his pinched mouth, giving way to perfectly aligned white choppers.

The roadmap of embedded lines crisis-crossing his weathered features, smoothing and softening.

The broken red veins covering the bulbous tip of his nose and apple cheeks, disappearing.


The thin, white hair of his sun abused pate, growing darker, thicker and lusher.

His weak, thin frame strengthening with muscle,

rippling like powerful waves beneath taunt, glowing skin, tanned to perfection.


Cane no longer needed, he strolled with a young man’s confidence,

long strides, heavy-footed, and purposeful,

mischievous brown eyes focused on a dream-filled, lofty future, imbued with youthful arrogance. 


Growing younger and un-wiser with each tock-tick of his backward running timepiece,

he demanded his due, loud and obnoxious;

pouted, stomped, and fitted when no attention was given.


“I want! I want!” his mantra chimed, relieved occasionally by the refrain, “Mine, mine, mine!”

He toddled and stumbled on chubby unsteady limbs, reliant totally on another’s hands.

Bottle to lips, he cooed and delighted, his large innocent brown eyes, dimmed and unfocused.


Smaller and smaller he diminished, 

‘til nothing was left, 

but the steady tock-tick of the backward running timepiece.


Antoinette F. Winstead, a poet, playwright, director, and actor, teaches film and theater courses at Our Lady of the Lake University where she serves as the Program Head for the Mass Communication and Drama programs. Her poetry has been published in The Ekphrastic Review, Langdon Review of the Arts in Texas, Voice de la Luna, Jerry Jazz Musician, and The Woman Inc.

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From My Father’s Voice:  The Aromatic Memories

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A Little Death