The Old Singer in the Room
Entering the room, for the first time
His chest tautens, his fingers peel
back the skin, his pupils rake through the
bars of his cage, into the space where a
heart should be, finding just two spools
of thread, each, a color unalike.
The spools, turning slowly, release their
strands, as franticly, with thickened fingers,
he tries to wind them back, only to be left
a witness, thin, and unraveling.
The naked spools, as wood-lathed replicants,
are revealed in the bent reflection of another,
as one is unburdened, the other, left barren,
knows of sadness, the other, reborn.
At the Singer, covered in a measure of time
passed dust, where once, her hands would
gently mend, he sits, and gathers-up the
strands of thread, each, a color unalike,
then sets in train, to stitch his torn fabric.