A MOMENT AT HIS DESK

The pens are resting

precisely where they should be.

The green lamp’s light

is as good as it can be,

and the stain of coffee on the paper

is picture perfect.

His hands, so flawlessly folded

in his lap, are wrinkled

in a wonderful way.

Alone in his small

impeccable apartment,

he is just right

as a sixty-five year old man

with textbook baldness

and the great gift

of growing old.