You are feeling naked this morning, without paint,
exposed. Raw. Old. Wondering
how long the old boards can stand
against the winter wind. Wondering
if you waited too long to apply paint,
or if it would make any difference, wondering
if the rot has already set in,
or if you are made of locust wood, eternal
and wondering which of your ghosts still live
and which you have come to know,
becomes friends with, wondering
how the ones who left you behind are doing,
wishing them well, glad for the lack of haunting,
wondering what ghosts do when there is no one left
who remembers them, wondering
always wondering, what is next and who and how
and will you enjoy the journey or not or
will you even recognize it when it comes.
About this poem.
The Muse is toying with me this morning. In my head as I was writing, this was three different poems Add of course it became something else entirely.
Being a poet is fun. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.