Quietly

They come down on strings he says.
In a voice like worn cracked leather he tells me
"Parachute silk, that's what they're on,
see, they chase the patterns" and he laughs ,
like I didn't get the joke, but the punchline is weak.
The leather is weaker and has no further voice,
but his eyes speak of a life in a glass house.
His hand is in his pocket, he shakes the loose change,
it rattles as if it knows it may never see another till, or purse,
and worse still, his monogrammed handkerchief knows,
it knows its initials are written in stone,
and I carried him there,
to his resting place,
He is there still,
quietly.