The Old Man (a prose poem)
- The Old Man
He's like a cabin stumbled on in the woods, tilted to the setting sun.
Years and the smell of mice layer themselves over the raw green of
the boy within, the thin pine planks whipped together to a six foot
He is worn in places and dark light slips in on full moon nights.
Nails sprung loose from a long ago settling host spider webs and the
rust of dreams.
There's a music in the rafters, a mix of howls and song, vowels and
grunts. A mind slips for a moment and a music hesitates over the
voices of lost loves, the names it takes a moment to remember, this
pause that feels like betrayal.
His walk is dusted with the shuffle to come. He is at once fierce and
frail, becoming a marriage of opposites, the last questing flame of a