Out of Age by Jonathan Butcher

It was during that damp morning, he
declared it his last summer.

His hole filled shoes, now hung on
home made washing lines,

Those cardboard envelopes not licked
now for over eight years, the powder
dissolved,

now sit framed in brass, polished
daily with drying spittle.

And at the end of the bed, a thousand cider bottles
piled high, like holocaust suitcases, as dust filled as
the memories.

He cracks his knuckles in time with the mantle piece
clock, feels each rung of the ladder turn to rubber.

Those voices thought gone, now return as whispers,
on that dutiful breeze, felt on the back of his neck,
a now constant massage.