Still life

There is a button missing, the thread
unwinds across a gut too heavy for
its frame.

He sits in grey-light, very still,
and half lid eyes urge on
the fading day.

He grew old slowly; shadows seeped
through tired rooms,
fabric frayed, the edges
first diminished.

Upon the mantle, photographs,
like mourners at a wake.

In one a couple sits, a crowded
rooftop scene; they have the
corner seat.

Across the city, blue lights and neon glow
and traffic flare like fire burning low.