Two Bedrooms, Fireplace And Hardwood Floors - Bernard Henrie
He can see his grandfather standing
on a dark, hardwood floor like the one
of his new apartment, a cuspidor
at his feet;
shadows inch into storage bins
and deaf corners of the house.
the halogen bloom of summer across
tile roofs and shining into the eyes
of dogs with jeweled collars;
the landlady offers lease papers,
he stares into the street;
a Japanese woman passes by,
he notes her lapel floret, her body
slight as his wife's on their
wedding day, she moves into focus
as on a photographer’s glass plate.
His wife had not called all day
and he was unable to remember
when his daughter would arrive
from school;
egg-shell colored hair feels thin
in his hand;
an hour later he turns
to the landlady, but the room
is empty; he finds his silver flask,
swallows a single capful;
grains of dust fall on his shoulders,
his watch is missing, a scuffed left
shoe untied.
In the fireplace mirror,
he notices how old he has become;
blue eyes aged to hardened steel,
unclipped brows drooping to form
a hood; his glasses and cheeks
grow wet;
The effect is a man's face struck
by rain while waiting for a taxi.
