He wore a felt hat
for his early morning beach walk--
an old man as regular in his habits
as any tide.
He moved slowly, carefully,
in incongruous leather shoes
under an anvil sky.
Later, the oddest thing--
he sat on the sand as if resting,
but his shoes were gone
and he was as dead.
His felt hat had fallen nearby
cockeyed, between a cracked shell and a dead fish
with a blackened hole in the crown
about the size of a cold drink coaster
or a baseball.
I can see him.
ReplyDeleteOh, good, now your poems come up on my blogroll again, so I dont have to forage. Smiles.
ReplyDeleteMy first reaction was 'Shoeless Joe' ~~ so happy you are here!!! Like Sherry remarked, foraging can be difficult, more-so than I thought it would be. Sending love.
ReplyDeleteThis poem has several paths to follow as it explores the line between life and death--a concept uncompromisingly simple, one would say, but here, not so much. The hat and shoes have an undead life of their own, and the old man seems to both retreat and advance as he cohabits their inanimate but speaking world. The last stanza is brilliant.
ReplyDeleteSomehow, I feel like he died (or was knocked out) happy. But then, I know your love of baseball.
ReplyDelete