His button eyes, sunken,
Black as a fractured satellite,
Filing my childhood.
Neither of us see quite clearly now.
His threaded smile--
Frayed, crooked, loosened, then lost.
It hides beneath bold cable wires.
His hair grown fine, nearly bare,
Scarce from reckless prying hands.
Beguiled are we,
Filled with fluff and shovings,
With muffled voices inside.
Through his museum expression,
Some stifled cry,
“What have I become?”