Bag Man

You sit at the coffee shop.
Writing.
Your emotions piled around you
like the bags of the homeless,
slightly invisible.

Your flannel shirt is warm and bright
under your gray coat,
a hint of the color you are just beginning to recover,
waiting for it to seep
in.

You have made this journey before.
Different things broken and remade, for sure,
but this path from barely to life is a familiar one.
You know the way.

And this is part of it. Surrounding yourself
with people you are in no mood for,
refusing
to be alone,
shutting off the hold behind you
and sitting exposed to the kindness
you both love and dread.

For you have no words.
Nothing sufficient to mark
the value of those who would not let you disappear,
who prayed when you could not.

And so you sit,
Your bags around you,
vagabond feelings,
waiting for the courage to open them
and discover the contents,
what you kept so unwittingly,
in the darkest of time.

You sip your coffee,
acrid and strong,
and wait.

About this poem. 

I wrote a couple of days ago about my slowness to process my feelings. It is a life long effort for me and I am terribly slow and imperfect. Right now I am waiting for my emotions to catch up with the cancer, operation and recovery.  They will come. They always do.

Tom