Antiques

an old man (eighty-nine they said)
a traveler of the oldest generation—
the depression and dust bowl
world wars and everything since—
so much life for one lifetime

his shirt sleeves were rolled up
by rough hands with swollen knuckles
his forearms still had their muscular outlines
but his tattoos approached obscurity
looking more like bruises
it took a minute to see what they were

an anchor on one
US NAVY written above it
in what used to be a robust
omnipotent script—
on the other
clenched in a knotted blue-grey fist
a dagger pulled from a disembodied heart
still dripping—
a macabre and irresistible curiosity

he was perusing
the antiques and collectables
laid out on counters and shelves
picking up
holding—
inspecting the castoffs of others’ lives—
this – not this he breathed—
putting down
glancing at his fading souvenirs—
remembering—

then he stood
at an old Lionel railroad layout
he ran his fingers on the tracks
gazed at a parked locomotive
just out of reach—
he nodded and smiled—

but I could see he was getting tired
so very tired
ready to return home
clutching his remaining memories