Leo Lawton
January 22, 2001
A beat up old pocket knife my brother long ago shared with me.
Two dimes, the dregs of a caffeine rush.
A handkerchief stained with the blood of a forgotten wound,
suffered by my grandchild. Oh how she wailed,
as silently, I wept for her.
A scruffy wallet slim with a lack of the bountiful.
Cards of this and chits for that,
money, greenbacks, lucre, necessity.
The key to the switch of motivation,
battered, parked, awaiting forlornly.
Clippers to save me from the lingering death of a hangnail.
Glasses that mine eyes could register all else.
Such things are the survival of a tired old man.