I imagine his dirty, work hardened hands
Might've slipped around its spiraled leather contours
And teased through the grooves of its wavy onyx coil

Then he might've withdrawn a few dull, depression era coins,
Slid them across a counter slicked with popcorn butter
To a petite girl in a neat usher's uniform,
And held her gaze long enough to sense her longing

And she might've gazed back
At his dusty, gentle stability,
At his chipped nails, broken smile, and deep, serene pupils
Stuffed with all the smarts and simple wisdom
Attained beyond the classroom
By a working man's wandering soul

I imagine her hands just as thin and gaunt as last I saw them
With half as many wrinkles
Shaking with joy
Not disease
Her legs still enough to bear her minuscule weight
Her knees knocking outside his perception.