Grandfather

Arms,
stoic and solid,
lead to the golden brown
of hands
clenched tightly into fists.
The crooks of the elbows
and curves in the hands
are worn lighter
looking much like patches
of wooden yellow sun-spots.
The grooves along
this frame,
crooked with wise weights,
are permanently tattooed by shadows.
Time hasn't seeped
through the entire surface yet,
but it has reached
the core of this body.

Bronze tacks
are the sinew
that hold red velvet fabric
to a scratched but proud
wooden skeleton.
The metal is gray with age.
A swipe of furniture polish-
lemon scented for this purpose-
reveals an instant
of mirrors
which fades all too soon.
Such acts of deception
are common.
Watch as spots of white
worn into the velvet
blush red with a brush of the hand.
Feel the cushion's plush exterior
deplete upon your insistence.
Underneath,
bare bones introduce
their bare and brittle presence.

After seventy years of sitting,
there is little comfort left.
Let this body rest
in state,
until those who buried him-
through the fragility of memory-
forget their times spent looking up from the lap
of their father's sand-paper face
and grandfather's rosin-lit eyes.