Franklyn at the Windowby John GreyHe’s old by this and his dreams are scuttled. Didn’t cross the ocean, Didn’t bear one child. His bones, his flesh, are failing him. His memory’s like a rotting pier with the waters splashing under and over, threatening to finally topple post and plank. He pulls his chair up to the window. He wants to see some motion. Even if it’s only a boy and girl playing hopscotch on the sidewalk. Even if it’s just a solitary car ambling down his side-street. Despite his age, he’s still a student of legs and wheels, of what gets people where. Beethoven’s pastoral plays in the background. He hears the needle hum across the black shellac. In his mind’s eye, he can see a row of arms, like machinery gears, sliding bows across violin strings. He can’t make out the tick of his watch but those relentless second and minute hands are all the insight he needs into time. Refrigerator hums. Water boils on the stove. Stereo’s on. Reflection shimmers in the glass. Life goes on, says everything that’s not living. © 2005 by John Grey. All rights reserved. |