I’m really nothing of a poet.  Some people seem to think in verse. I do not. However, tonight as I approached my house in the cold, these words seemed to come out of me even before I could sit down and write them. And, since that is uncommon for me, I thought I should honor whatever poet in me may exist. So, tonight I share this poem.

An Isolated Poem

I’m walking slowly.
I don’t have to. I want to.

I can hear the sound of my feet,
one by one
each as they meet the pavement.

The souls in my shoes,
they converse with the walkway.
They are numb from their efforts
and their arguments.

Yet still they discus everything
I can’t understand.

Memories and feelings.
People and places.
Generations I never knew.
Generations I’ll never know.
The roots of my being,
my histories, catastrophes.
All in a hundred split seconds.

Thupp. Thupp. Thupp. Thupp.

My skin learns harsh truth
from the air that passes over it.
A million needles on fire
press against my surface.

Yet the feeling is of cold.

And in spite of searching,
wishing, hoping, needing,
there is nothing to learn.

And under the weight of a knit hat,
Against the sides of my head,
my ears are pressed firm.

In spite of harsh elements,
they are comfortable.
They are warm.
They are the privileged members.

They contemplate nothing.
They do not care.
But that, they don’t even know.

And they’re content.