The Study
by Dale Jordan Heath

    I slid my hands
    along the cool desk
    where everything
    was left as it was:
    paperclips, yellow memo pads,
    black scrawling messages,
    the tired, cracked, leather case
    still holding his glasses.

    I touched the mahogany bookends,
    stallions rising,
    flanking Faulkner and Frost,
    embossed letters of gold
    fine bindings for his favorites.

    And my fingertips followed
    the brass brads of his oxblood chair,
    where I once posed upon his knee,
    listening to stories and poems.

    His smooth cello-sad voice,
    a lyric vibrato I still hear,
    prompting my weary head
    to rest against this now cold
    vacant place.

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