HENRY

the third-floor apartment is abloom with books
stacked, shelved, and scattered; and the scent
of gamey mutton and shoe polish permeates

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Henry stacks his dirty dishes in the bathtub
hangs his teacup in the closet with his silk ties
stores his toothbrush in a shoebox under the bed

he wears his khaki trousers inside out, places
a carefully folded tea towel on his balding bonce
then sits on a wooden chair by the half-open window

scribbles shorthand in the empty boxes of a crossword
assumes the position: a waiter for chance and opportunity;
outside, the metro terminal teems with expedient purpose

and pigeons puzzle and judge along the sidewalks;
somewhere, locked deep within the cranial vault
Henry’s keeper of secrets allows an unexpected

shot of metallic clarity – a real memory reminds him
that once upon a time he, too, walked those streets
uptown to the leafy university, taught from the cannon,

and as he looks upon the tomes strewn about
the remembrance flees; he whispers a lullaby
of nonsense, is once again lost to the attic of time

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 First appeared in The Gay and Lesbian Review Worldwide (Mar/Apr 2020)