The sweet of faded mirrors

I work at a nursing home, and there I am blessed to see what true, unselfish, charitable love looks like. Today I worked with a lady whose husband was so full of unselfish, undimmed love I felt like there was no possible way it could be unrequited, no matter how buried his beautiful bride seemed to be in the progression  of her tragic disease. This is what I imagine she might be thinking even if she can't recognize him.

There is something right in his his eyes--

the way the horn-rims nestle on the bridge of his nose
framing faded gray mirrors and bridge
the sea of reflection into 1001 stories and nights

but Scheherazade forgot, and now I'm tired.

I wake to a grumble like rainy gravel
that smells of Downy, denture cream, and sunrise.
"Are you tired sweetheart? I thought
I heard you whisper" his Polligrip in my ear...

Bing Crosby confuses me, I turn at the wall.

The paisley walls stare back loudly and it hurt my wrists
Crosby (or was it Scheherazade?) pats them into quiet.
My wrists and my eyes want to be still, but
the rivets in his leather extract something from somewhere.

Now my wrists want to pull away. I don't like doctors.

He stands. I want him to sit but my eyes still want still

I want to swim in his horn-rims, to taste his grumble again.
I want his leather on my wrist. There is something,

Something somewhere in the somewhere of nights...

Somewhere sweet in my heart about a creamy sunrise...

Something right in faded gray mirrors.