a chill air

he took a seat
in the old rocking chair
in the attic,
facing the window
with the sun coming over
the rear facing portion of the roof
like a blanket draped
over a newborn.

from that creaking chair,
he watched the children
play
outside
and remembered when
he too
was a child,
but no more.

a thin layer of dust
upon the window sill,
stuck by
oily things
that forever
drift
in the air.

a bird glides by.

then another.

and the scene from beyond the window
returns.
a man out there washing his car.
the suds slide in engorged bubbles
that rinse away the oils,
forever in the air.

he stands.
the joints in his legs try to resist,
but he pushes through.
he glances back before he
turns fully.
someone out there passes on a bicycle.

a small table. the varnish lost
some years ago.
mahogany shows through,
worn black with oils
always in the air.

atop the table is a phonograph.
the cone is proud on top
like a black and gold flower,
wilted slightly.

he winds the lever on front.
a few slow twists and the record spins. the needle touches.
the arm gives with the motion. dusty scratches.  the music comes crisp.

a song older than him.
a song his grandfather used to play.
a song without a voice.

he lowers himself to the rocking
chair once more and peers out
beyond the window.

a child laughing.

the sun behind. it washes the life
it sees. a cool wind, but
the window
is firm.
only the sound of a
lost breeze
saunters past.

cars flash by. interruptions of time
between the smears of color. a cat
on the porch across the street.

his breath is slow. he folds his hands in his lap.
the sweater hangs loose upon his shoulders.
wrinkles of time. lost. only one button is clasped
on the sweater. the others are free. an
exposed thread on his pant leg. not too worn
yet.

his bare feet work through the dust
on the floor. his hand trembles and
falls                                         still.

the music carries on. beautiful with
an echo between the beams overhead.
the air is still,
save for the movement of song.

his skin as a pearly. the veins show through.
sackcloth stained in streaks of blue. the wrinkles
are refined. he misses his wife's voice.
his daughter is gone too.

there are oily things that forever drift in the air.

the children are full of laughter outside. their veins
are just as blue.