Old

We sat in an antique room
drinking tea from a new old
china set,
everything collected
things bought in their collections
for collection
Archaic paintings called 'Classics'
and music played known as
'Classical'
Everything was oddly old
We sat on refined mahogany
with every piece a tale
and our host an aging man
who was much like what he owned
He chattered and entertained in
his museum home
'Look at this'
'Look at that'
Each from each century
I looked at the owner
more than his obsessions
his greying eyes all to match his
grey suit
And then I think
When time rolls on
who would be there to
refine him?
Polish him?
Treasure him?
And call him a 'Classic'
And every word he utters
dub 'Classical'?