A Beard of Dust
The old clock had grown
a beard of dust.
The ink in the Underwood's ribbon
long dried in silence.
Frayed tassels of an old desk lamp
hung over the motionless pen.
Gnarled hands etched
the pain of goodbye.
Grandmother's rocker was still.
So was he.
7/3/2020
The Old Scribe Poetry Contest
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