Poetry (Day 81): Lost Things

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    Lost Things

 

Once, long ago
when he was a boy,
he had talked
like a landslide—
a excited tumble of words
that gathered momentum
down the long slope
of a conversation.

He was all knees
and elbows
when he walked.

He smiled a
big-toothed smile
like a summer day,
even when it was cold
and dark.

I saw him again,
not so long ago.
He smiled, and said hello,
as he waited for the bus.
But his eccentricities
had been worn away
and he was just a man
like any other.

Someone had taken
his landslide, his knees
and his elbows, and
packed them away
in an adult body.
They had taken
his summer smile
and hidden it behind
an oak desk and
Important Things.

He gathers
a little bit more
darkness
every day.

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