Number 504

You left me your secrets
in a dusty box,
hidden in the eaves 
of the garage.
You were unknown to me, 
but I imagine you, bent over,
shuffling to the kitchen,
your dressing gown tied loosely
at your waist.

The milk sits solitary on the refrigerator shelf,
already sour.
I see you, sitting alone 
in your customary chair,
waiting out the long 
watching memories 
dancing on the walls in 
empty frames.

Your arthritic, yellowed hands reach
for yet another cigarette.
The air hangs heavy.
Cinders drop on the frayed carpet by
your cold and dirty toes.