subtext

His grey hands hang slack in his lap

like dust.  The western sun pools

in splotches onto the floor. What’s left

of his meal cools on a table nearby.

The evening’s slow seduction falls

exhausted across the room like lovers

into sleep between tangled sheets.

Caught in nostalgia’s fluid aftermath,

years puddle into stepping stones

leading through stumbled leaps

until finally collapsing into dark

miasmas at his feet. No despair

thickly stirs through the darkening air.

His grey hands hang slack in his lap.