The dresser drawerful, round
half-dollars cinched
inside maroon velvet pouches.
JFK’s mien on a solitary shelf,
gunmetal 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; Trails from an old
baseball figure. An
illustrated face on its cover not like
mine. Rows expiring bottle
the Frigidaire
simply set, the clicker controls. Pointing
key-chain’s
soft blue at space’s dim plight,
marvel to see them by some hotel pool,
easing in sun. So eerie here,
where doors are alien, this
atmosphere: suffocating, that motive-
dead-medley near awry,
too without? I
tire of listening? and the son,
his posture like mine?
Growndown by time time time.