get lost…
It happened while shaving. The epiphany
of seeing his shadow in of all places the
mirror. He confessed to his soul’s twin:
I’ve wasted too much time.
The mirror moaned back: Plug your
ears like Ulysses’ men and instead of
six more winter weeks spring lickety-split
into Neruda’s green world winged with
Rilke’s angels. Get lost in hard-luck
country where self is the first sacrament.
He dug out his father’s worn mackinaw, and began –
to amble into autumnal sensuality,
to mimic his moon-cast shadow,
to reach for ruddy puckered coins.
There’s nothing quite like the scent of a father’s coat or the feel of the things he’s left in the pocket.
Stepping into midlife has its concerns to be sure…
but the gift of writing like this is surely proof of time not wasted.
Patricia, yes, our fathers’ things are often more than things…thanks for your comment.
your mirror knows something.
Winn, I’m trying to listen…
First time hear. Read 6 poems or so. All I could take in. This is very good stuff. Love the sharp edges on everything.
Thanks, Gordon…stop by anytime.