The dresser drawerful, round half-dollars cinched
inside maroon, velvet pouches,
JFK’s mien on a solitary shelf, metal boat
for a clicker. Clockface by, play-acting
as peculiar music box, cheap gilded rest
for wall’s olive phone arm, meant to charm, wait.
I wait. My hands are a test. Uplifiting my book,
paper trails of an old baseball figure.
The illustrated face of its cover not like mine.
Rows expiring bottle the Frigidaire, simply set,
the clicker controls. Pointing keychain’s
soft blue at space’s dim plight,
marvel to see them by some hotel pool, easing
in sun. Eerie here, where doors are alien, this
atmosphere: suffocating; that motive-dead-medley,
near awry, too without. I tire of listening,
their son, his posture like mine. Grown down, time
is sublime; tacked up, bowling over, striking my line.