E: This Old Man

This Old Man

The narrative at the bottom of that tree
Is a lengthy one
Of one foot forward, two steps backward
Of Mays spent in Decembers, or vice versa
Of too much, too early
Or not enough

For chapter one, if you will, think in sepia
Of a small house and its neighbors
A crowd in a crowded room on a crowded street
An A, a B, and a C are spoken out loud in monosyllables
And the sign language of short, stubby fingers
Strangers are giants, meals short-lived
Not a bad place, could be anyplace

To a different chapter, one with more color
A yearning to move, to stand and sit and move again just right
More colors in the dark backseat
Of someone else's car
A tightening of something invisible, elastic
The sheer weight of freedom
And looking back, and back
And maybe waving goodbye

Learning all the colors now
Abandoning the primaries and mixing in some gray
The headache of a clear amber, the many blues of love
A new crowded room, on a different crowded street
The cries of many chapter ones beginning
The paunch that is the hyperbole of good living
With only some of the good parts

A brief chapter of standing on a stoop
Watching the backs of others walk along
The door clicks loudly in an empty house
Turn the page, to

The end on a park bench
In an overcoat, under the tree
There is the sun, and a son
Both are getting harder to see
The days donate their contents freely
One to each other, in a long stream
Of fewer steps
Of months
Of very little