Two Bedrooms, Two Baths, Hardwood Floors Poem by Bernard Henrie

The hardwood floors of his new apartment
slick as a dessert fork;

a calm summer, a child’s toy could not be
blown across a lake; shadows inch into
storage bins and deaf corners of the house.

The halogen bloom of summer across metal
roofs and dogs with jeweled collars;

a Japanese woman passes close by;
he notes her lapel floret, her body moves
into focus as on a photographer’s glass plate.

The landlady offers lease papers, he stares
at the street; his wife had not called all day,
he could not remember when his daughter
would arrive from school; his white hair
the egg-shell color of late afternoon.

An hour later he turned to the landlady,
but the room was empty; he fished out
a silver flask swallowing a single capful;
grains of dust fell on his shoulders,
his watch was missing, a scuffed left
shoe untied.

In the fireplace mirror, he noticed how old
he had become; blue eyes simmered
to sword hard steel, the unclipped brows
drooping to form a hood; his glasses
and cheeks grew wet;

The effect was of a man wet in a downpour
while wating for a taxi.