The Gloss of the Past

The docent was explaining the grain,

pointing with a gloved hand

at the way the light died

in the mahogany.

I waited until she turned

to show the fireplace,

then I pressed my thumb

hard against the corner.

It wasn't cold like stone,

just a slick, oily film of wax.

I left a whorl of myself

on a table that hasn't been used

for a hundred years.