Date: Thu, 12 Dec 2013 09:05:04 -0500 (EST)
From: Brad Page
Subject: Re: poem on giving
The coat.
Pushing logs into the stove
for the morning heat up is a frigid time.
I wear Kevin’s coat.
It’s lined in eider down.
The warmth comes up the back and across my shoulders
It eases tension against the cold that binds my neck.
It’s a gift.
I smile at memories of the giving on a summer day.
His smile of pleasure shines from the
generosity of his face.
He hired me to repair his front steps.
I suggested a more interesting style.
Yes, he said.
But it became difficult,
took time, too much time to send this old carpenter
back to Carpenter College.
My only gift was my skill and my willingness to cut
the cost to helper rates until I re-graduated.
This is what Kevin and I do.
What, he asked, did I have against his toothbrush holder –
shattered when my careless elbow swept it off the sink?
I replied, “self-defense†, having been attacked
by a beady-eyed monster when my back was turned.
I replaced it, much scrubbed, sanitized from the PTA Thrift Store.
And tamer.
Impatiently pulling a power cord about his do-da laden yard,
I tipped a glass globe on to rocks from its stand.
Humpty-dumpty do-da..
Amazon.com to the rescue!
Alas, the replacement globe bit the rocks.
Though not by me.
He gave me a flannel shirt and a warm sweater
back in the summer too.
This cabin, some nights, is plumb cold and
that sweater makes late-night perambulations
to the bathroom that old men often take
less of an “O-ah, damn, it’s cold!†trip.
My friend, Ann and her two children
lost everything last week.
House fire, no insurance, Merry Christmas .
I could open my wallet
knowing the kindness and generosity
swapping had found a new home.
Brad