Apple-shriveled
Time worn
She sits
In heavy solitude
As August sun
Seeps through crumbling brocade
Into the maple-paneled room
Dust, eternally trapped
Rides the somber rays
In filmy, choking ranks
Her only observer
Her faithful attendant
A vintage brooch of peacock visage
Upholds her dwindling tangle
Of dalmation hair
Tumbling
Tumbling
Down
In stringy wisps
About her wizened shoulders
Her crinkly eyes
Still distinctly blue,
Yet less distinctly seeing
Gaze at the tarnished mirror
Her reflection
haphazarded
by cracks
and
rust
The faded wingback chair supports her fragile frame
Its damask pattern
worn
and
frayed
as much as she
Ancient punch stains and
Historical coffee spills
Stalwart mementoes of former days
In her lap
Lies a pink satin sheath
With tucks and pleats
And loosened stitchings
Her purple-veined hands
As agile as eagle talons
Caress the smocking
Rub
Rub
The smoothness of the mother-of-pearl buttons
With childlike tenderness
She fingers the yellowed lace hem
And in her
Trembling tracings
She recalls the years of the dress
The silent moments
It contains
And
The old grandfather clock
Ticking out of tune
Ticks
And
Ticks on
The only sound in this catacombic room
And over her head hangs the cobwebbed chandelier
Many years fallen asleep
Perhaps never to be awakened
From slumber
In green mottled frames
Dripped with
Water stains
From ceiling leaks
Photographs of bygone faces
Stare out from the
Paper prisons
Holding their breaths
In resignation
And
The clock ticks on
Out of tune
Out of rhythm
Keeping time as he’s bidden
The mirror trembles
Under the weight of a passing generation
And
Outside in the street
A little girl
Jumps
Rope
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