there's always a space in the middle...
of the house, the hallway, the room.
next to shelves filled with tiny fingerprints
next to dustbeams and wooden canes
a place where the draft neath the door cannot reach
a place where the warmth of the grill does not touch
a place where the music does not play
and words crease the aging, leather chairs
as old hands motion silently...
to sit instead of stand.