He never leaves the living room–– old geezer. His keys sneeze with dust. Wheezes out Für Elise, 
needs a Wash Day Rag. Speaks C Ya Later Alligator Major and G Aren’t You Sharp. Serves as 
elevated surface for rusty family photos where every forced smile feels framed. Self-elected junk 
receptacle: unpaid bills, receipts, opened envelopes not quite ready for trash bin. Lonely. Knick 
knacks on the fake mantle: skeleton of a black electric violin, battery candles patterned like paper 
birches, snow globe, conch shell, a dozen dying roses. Eclectic collection of kitsch. Fake wood 
boasts scars from battles with a six-year-old sticker habits and then iron-wool scrubbing. Creaks 
as the cover opens and closes. Damper pedals swushes and shushes. Lets out a fantastic crack 
of flatulence. Real stand-up guy, but too old for the market.