She strolled across the table,
a gymnast eyeing the gold
candelabra, blissful in her own
disregard for our dinner plans.
I watched, awed by her grace
in pilfering family treasures, aged
among memories and cobwebs,
heirlooms weaving their histories out loud.
My uncle twirled wonky whiskers
in his fingers, hung up on paintings
disappearing as he watched,
considering an inheritance walking out.
I myself watched beauty leave:
the thieving foxy, moxie-breathing
burglar left nothing of value behind.
Not even my threadbare heart.
(c) 2019 by Phillip Knight Scott
Written with the Putting My Feet in the Dirt August Prompts – “wonky whiskers” in mind.