He just sits there and reads
the newspaper in our industrial flat
up north. Outside our windows,
the neighborhood blends in
with the low, pewter sky
and the book of poems
I've been reading.
From where I sit, I see
flocks of flustered starlings,
yards of disintegrating trains,
and the memories of workers
who once stood in line,
coffee steaming from between
their parted lips, to punch in
at the time-clock downstairs.
(Said clock left intact in
what I often imagine as
an attempt at architectural irony).
Some of the memories are vulnerable,
some blocked or shocking, while others
are blue as sea glass. The clouds shift and
settle, exposing a sliver of bright sky,
like a sudden smile.
He puts down his paper and sighs.
I get up from my favorite chair,
cross to the gray tweed sofa,
and sit next to him.
(c) 2017, by Hannah Six
