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. Uplifting my
book; Trails from an old baseball figure, an
illustrated face on its cover not like
mine. Backlit 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 Christ? his posture like mine? his
florid physiognomy, hung up, on time.