.Grandfather's Desk

    Like an old-fashioned gent,
    with a comforting air
    he stands in the corner,
    at the far side of my room.
    His few loose knobs lend
    a sense of vulnerability,
    which somehow magnify
    his handsome dark features.
    A mini chain to the past,
    two light-colored rings mar his surface
    where my children had set juice glasses
    before they left for school.
    The scent of exotic cigars from one drawer
    returns me to grandfather’s dark room where,
    as a child, I would sometimes nap
    after opening this desk to look for secrets.
    Now, forty years later, I sit here,
    writing poetry and letters while
    looking through grandfather’s desk,
    hoping he’ll whisper a secret.