The Scale of the Room

He used to reach the gutters without a stool,

moving through the yard like he owned the air.

Now he stands by the dresser, looking at the oak,

his hands hovering over the corners like he’s afraid

of the weight he used to carry with a shrug.

I lifted the box of lightbulbs for him today.

When he reached out, his watch slid down his arm,

resting against a wrist so thin the bone seemed

ready to push through the skin. He looked at me

with a question I didn't want to answer.