Clanking his tired copper bowl
absurdly on the dry pine
a frosty reminder that hidden in the
dark dank garret of my abode

where the yawning, sloped
ceiling met the filthy crooked floorboards,
he occupied a sliver of cramped space,
amongst the boxes of forgotten Kodak's,
a hollow where the truth was
free to sit and rest a while

Fragments of blinding bone white
and Tuscany yellow sought refuge
for half days, illuminating dusty
trunks filled with the
keepsakes of my juvenescence

Intimate company, nothing more
than transient guests, were
distracted by my warm and
inviting home, oblivious
to the sequestered occupant
in the above

Skylights softly guiding the
tangerine glow into
the wool fabric of the
boorish night  

The facade was festooned with
baby’s breath and lavender that
dangled from freshly painted arches
cloaking the rot beneath

Rusted, wind chimes played
off key sonnets for the lesser rabble,
who danced where the
woodland greeted the blue

Inside, heavy fall linens were
folded square, the perfume of
yesterday’s respite lingering,
a strident reminder that, all things,
even love, ceases to exist after
perpetual misuse and
changing seasons

Ninety-degree angles issued a decree,
demanding a strict alignment of all the
handsome trinkets, widgets, and gizmos
that defined me, placated me,
if only for a breath, filling the space
between empty brass picture frames
on the dust free mantle

Mutual secrets were held captive
behind pursed lips
Fearful of callous abandonment,
I predict his return from the
vile, decrepit part of my home,
where he sleeps

When the jubilant laughter of
my guests would break the
lonely apprehensive silence,
his boisterous uneven footsteps
would protest his confinement
and send them away  

I am left alone with bottled potions,
worn out diamonds and
stationery inked with
words of dissolution

Once again, he reminds me that,

I am home, an abandoned widower,
comfortable in my attic of pine