|
Cold Coffee
I ascend the stairs into his office,
Imposing on the sanctity of an impressive collection
Of materials that lack materialism,
And talent that lacks vanity.
The corner of the room showcases a portrait
Of an old friend,
His charcoal fingerprints freckle the unfinished face,
Revealing a trace of handsome ambiguity.
Shavings of pastel stain the easel,
As the stiff bristles of dried brushes
And crumpled tubes of oil paints
Lie parched in an old crate
A model biplane sits on his desk
Upon which his cold coffee leaves a half-ring.
His cedar drawers encase piano sheet music
Marked by his calloused hands
To a song entitled: Strangers in the Night.
On his bookshelf rest Steinbeck and Tolstoy,
Frost and Silverstein,
In their tattered forms,
With a scent of musty grass in their adhesive bounds.
On his floor, stacks of old newspapers line the oriental:
The Times, The Herald, The Globe
On his chesterfield sits a puzzle of black and white:
A crossword,
Doused in scarlet ink.
Incoherent letters made by a quick hand
Occupy boxes arranged in columns and rows
Atop an architecture handbook,
His bifocals gaze
With a birds-eye view of the open page,
Exposing a blueprint of a small cottage.
A vintage ukulele perches on his chair,
Relaxing silently.
The strings untouched by his deft fingers,
In tune to the smell of mahogany.
I stand and smile at his serenity
With such simple things:
Things that exhibit craftsmanship,
Things that teach humility,
Things that truly inspire.
|
