the antiques

the antique

of you,

is sublime, the dust,

the smell

of old wood,

without shine.

the grey webs

of time

that you call

hair.

the creak

of bones going

across

the oriental rug,

then

down the stairs.

your voice

a scratch

on the gramophone,

yes, let's admit it,

we're

all getting on

in years.