Pairs

A white cloth shirt on a hanging rack
Folded top to bottom, crisp and clean
Stained not by mud yet torn with
Things less tangible to the eye
A small, clean shirt, not tattered, unworn

A pair of shoes, dusty closet corner
Unlaced, unworn, untouched
With miles yet to walk and places to go
A simple blue, not a thing more

A fresh-made bed, for years it seems
New-dressed sheets, homemade quilt
Awaits a mind wandering of destinations to go
A sleeper to sleep, rest, lie, and dream

Another room, still full of life
Yet a thought lies heavy, hanging
A question half-answered, neither right nor wrong
How long will they wait until the whole answer comes?

A new pair of shoes is surely needed
The others went walking in a land far away
Walking their miles, in no hurry, no race
Their shells seemed to stay unworn

A question with no right answer
Everyone always meets again
For a second or forever
There is no rush, no running
To break in the shoes, to wear out the soles.

---

A poem from October 2008.

I debated a bit on which one to post. I have a good-size backlog and nowhere else to put them, really, besides here.

This one ended up being the first of February.

The Carbon Cycle IV: The Old Man

I had a brother just like you.

he says, as I relinquish some change to the tender
a young man of perhaps eighteen
a hopeful high school senior

Take your cup of coffee and sit.

An old man beckons
A young man listens.

He wears a hat and holey coat
sits down, takes his cap off
He is gray and patchy

He was just like you.

he says, the old man
the patchy, gray, holey, old man

His fingers are nervous yet his voice is warm
warm and desperate for something
Comfort is all, I believe.

There was a time, when I was young -

He says, mouth chewing on a straw
Eyes looking lost and wandering

I used to take medicine when I was young -

Brief insight and clarity into an old man
the gray, sober, old man

But that was long ago.

Chewing on a straw.

My brother would have needed medicine.

Eyes looking down, at the table
Anywhere but me.

So much medicine, so much care.
We would have done it, too - anything.

A reminiscent old man.
Coffee, cool enough to drink.
Light but still bitter. Hot but not burning.

I used to garden when I was young -
My brother might have gardened, were he able.
Now he is able but I am not. Our timing was not so good, was it?

The old man gets up and with the slow swing of a door is gone.
Wondering and wandering, yet with a purpose in his step.
On the street, walking home.

Even I am someone’s brother.

----
There are four poems in this series. Chronologically written and by sequence, this is the last one.

I apologize, I cannot get it formatted the way it should be read.