Painting by Jonathan Campo
GETTING VALUE
My elderly friend of many years arrived
last winter at my door with his nose
dripping onto the floor, and shaking
so hard you could hear his teeth clatter.
It was hard to get his clothes off
and him onto the sofa bed in my living room.
Filling me with memories of what
he used to be. What the French call
“monsters.” (Like Rodin.) His poetry is
deeper now. Bigger, and more tender
than ever. We wonder about the newness
of the old. And how much is missing.
He forgets names and directions.
Surely there is a hollowing out,
but how much that is left is more than
the past was? Shakespeare who stopped
writing. And the crippled Leonardo.
What about our very old god who is
now making his problematical children?
Linda Gregg
Posted over on Poet Island Press
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