I have an image in my head,
Of tablecloths, white-checked and red,
Of honeyed sunlight streaming in
Through window blinds, which, in making dim
The sunny outdoor light that plays
Bring into light the overlooked,
The crooked, broken, tired strays,
The cracked and aged cooking pot
In which once was made a family meal
Succulent and piping hot.
Now the pot is on display-a memory
The ancient past
The strays: once strong and tall and proud
Can only linger, crowding ‘round:
A grey old man, his back is hunched, and in his trembling hand, a crutch
A cane, and then, when you glance down, you see one foot upon the ground
The other lingers, blown away
On a battlefield from yesterday
A hollow lad, dressed all in black
Is counting pennies in the back,
His fingers shake-his gloves, careworn
A thread-unraveling, afraid.
A lady in a purple dress lingers by the doors
Her raiment-shades of sadness
All these and more, they gather here
Strangers all,
Mementos of an older time
A time when men would laugh and jeer
More easily turn on a peer
For an outer wound-a limb, a foot,
Or something deeper,
Hidden close,
A wounded heart
A drowning soul
They gather here, where life is kind,
A book store down on Thirty Ninth
Secondhand! It proclaims
On shuttered windows
Secondhand, yes, or Second Hand-
A hand to help you leave the pain behind
The pain of living in the past that leads you past now’s happiness