This Old Man

[71degrees]

An old man, his stiff collar;
he moves from room to room,
placing his hands on worn spots
about the apartment: arm chair,
orange doily, night shirt, edges
of a black-and-white
photo of his father

His father read meters
for the electric company
door-to-door, an honest wife
rubbed his feet at night,
soles worn by the miles

spring, summer, autumn, winter
rain, children, geese, steam trains

street cars, family picnics, weddings
family portraits, funeral snow

All these both have lived,
in all the rooms, the worn places,
the moons and soon everything
people remember so fondly

Revision

This Old Man

The way he moves
from room to room,
placing hands on worn spots

arm chair, orange doily,
night shirt, edges
of the only photo
he has of his father

The older father read meters
for the electric company,
door-to-door, an honest wife
rubbed his feet at night,
soles worn by the miles

spring, summer
autumn, winter
rains, geese,
children, trains
family picnics
street shows
weddings
funeral snows

And here he is
and there he goes,
both will leave
the world
as they found it—
hearts divided,
words on paper,
everything people
might remember fondly