Freshly waxed
The gleaming table
shone like a sun soaked lake.
Perfectly placed in the middle
of the table stood a multi
cracked vase, reminding me
of sun dried African planes.
It held nothing but a shallow
pool of fluffy dust.
The vase leans a little to
the left, father's fingers had
just started shaking back
then and it showed.
Looking down with a lonely
lurch a bookshelf lent us
its shadowed shade.
The bookshelf is how it has
always been- untouched
even by mother's intusive feather
duster. I always wondered why
Father had never shaken these
books from thier sleepy slumber
and read the secrets within.
I remember his reply-
to remove these books and
expose their contents would
be like..............
he stopped, frowned and sighed.
looked at me, then the books,
the books then me,
and wandered into the garden.
Not Long Left
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fathers-bookshelf/
