Remembering Gordon

Light from the back window made more of the room. But
curtains of white lace said grace either side the frame, and
made more than a roof over their Bourbon County heads,
heads which they often had trouble keeping up
and out of trees.

Once it passed over the lumpy single bed,
that light had little place else to go but down,
down into the Victorian button-ups on the floor.

What spacey floorboards held the bed,
held the boots with scalloped ridge.
Boots a bit worn, but keeping time.
Boots angled in perfect position,
like the lady and her magazine
positioned to catch the light.

“Is that you, Gordon?” she says as she lifts herself
to pull on her flowery dress over her full slip.

A hand runs over its length and curves.
“I’m ready, dear!”

Both of them will walk now —
Both of them in the same shoes
Out of history
Click!