Evening

Some poems never get there. This one has been with me for nearly as long as the old man it's written about.
It's frustrating, but, then again, it's probably a good thing that certain accomplishments keep us grasping.

Evening

Evening light dozed on unwashed dishes;

old dust coated china plates;

the Sacred Heart, smoked and sagging,

looked down from a height;

a clock ticked like a jaded heart.

His face, at the table, jerked uncontrollably,

occasionally he choked on his tongue.

All that might be called life was in a biscuit box

in a press: letters, photographs, Christmas cards, postcards;

and a silver pocket-watch he got from his mother.