the brass spittoon


1.

light knifes through a crack
in faded curtains, an Excalibur
which splits the musty room in half:
dust dances through the golden blade,
its tip buried in the left arm
of an old salvation army sofa.
stabbed this way a thousand afternoons
the sofa's arm bleeds yellow foam
which dribbles to the hardwood floor.
the register whispers...december.

2.

in the opposite corner,
an old man lives in a rocking chair,
rocks back and forth, back and forth.
the chair squeaks, the floorboards creak.
stale air is thick with the stink of age:
everything in the room looks worthless.
the old man's face ought to be on canvas:
piles of wrinkles surround a buzzard nose,
charred caterpillars hang
over caverns hiding his eyes.
he blinks, moves his one good eye.
the other, made of glass, stares straight ahead.

3.

a jellyfish of a woman
with mammoth breasts starts up the stairs.
two stumps tattooed with varicose veins
thump in white tube sox and splitting slippers.
she climbs with care by creak of stair.
gray threads half-gathered in a bun on top
float about her face like cobwebs.
her dress of faded cotton roses
twists and wrinkles, struggles to keep up
with her arms, the size of thighs.
her cheeks hang from her face, puffing.
her breasts hang from her chest, bouncing.
she brings the old man his food and mail.


4.

when the children, bundled up like socks,
came around in late december
singing very old carols as if they were new,
he invited them inside to visit.
he had nothing at all to give them;
he just wanted to show them his brass spittoon.
they stood politely expecting some shiny coins,
their eyes curiously terrified.
he pointed to the corner with his finger,
gnarly and brown as a branch from a tree,
and told them it was a grecian urn.
they shut him up with peals of laughter
then scampered out the musty door
which clicked shut like a suitcase.
he rocked three times, then spit,
missed the urn but hit the floor.


5.

a thousand stories he could have told them,
none of which they would have understood.
his favorite was how he lost his eye,
a long tale full of sound and fury
about WW one and a piece of shrapnel.
he never told it twice the same
but it had fared better with age.
the whippersnapper of a medic
who patched him up would be proud -
though the old man never recalled his name,
he always remembered who gave him the eye,
and an extra one as a souvenir.
he knows it’s around, somewhere.


6.

one day after the holidays,
she found him in his rocking chair,
mouth drooped open in an eternal yawn,
cold as the new year’s wind.
he was wearing the only suit he had,
which needed to be cleaned and pressed,
his best dress shirt and his Countess Mara tie.
the hair on her neck stood to salute
and she wondered but didn’t stop to think
the closer it gets, the easier it is to see.
and even with one eye, he saw it coming.
she would make “the arrangements.”


7.

they came, dressed in uniforms,
stomping up the creaky stairs,
chatting loudly about the football game,
as if their indifference would change
how the living must care for the dead.
no one peeked out their peepholes:
some sounds are too familiar.
the pick-up would have been routine except
one guy knocked over the brass spitoon.
something clinked out,
and tapped each floorboard as it rolled.
he picked it up and for an instant
was eye to eye with the old man’s souvenir.
he shuddered for a moment,
blinked, then tossed it on the sofa.

8.

they left, and the door clicked shut.
the afternoon light cut through a crack
in the curtains, dust settled on the sofa.
the register whispered...remember.

© Mark E. Dougherty