Franklyn at the Window

by John Grey
 
He’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.

John Grey is an Australian born poet, playwright, and musician. His latest collection is What Else Is There from Main Street Rag.