Old

Old

Old is piled in the corner gathering

dust on its gilt bindings,

hugging its fragile stories until a retelling

would only crumble.

Old is on the mantle,

keeping its slow accounting of time

and losing a beat now and again,

still polished... preserved, but

inside workings wearing smooth, slipping.

Old is stretching tall

but is easily brought down by sweat-

handed expansionists,

rough-hewn age-rings

opening the past to a single glance.

Old is by the phone,

dry hands and split nails idling, wondering

if the call will come,

or if they all are too green to read the

signs of dying.