kethrai's Diaryland Diary

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The second hands

Figured I probably should live up to the claims of being a poet, even if it is old stuff:

The Second Hands

I can't bear old clothes
she said, it's as if
I put on another's thick
old essence
and it crawls down my
throat and tries to smother me.
a haunting familiarity
until I knew, I become
somebody other
than me--
I can't stand it--
too claustrophobic
to pull that old turtle-neck
over my head
an unwilling hermit
in another's unwieldy shell
I realized
what she regarded with dread
was what drew me into
thrift shops--
wrap old folks around me,
listening for the voices
whipsering
from the old collars
and cuffs,
old dress stuff
disintigrating in my fingers
and old conversation lingers
on my hands, my mind
a sign
of a good shirt is
the friends it used to have--
Perhaps a symptom of my old
aloneness, of the days
of the friendly old white robe ghost
sneaking in the door
but the old drifts of dreams
the half-heard words
the memories of dances
curled up and sleeping
in the wrinkled shoe--
not something ever found
in anything I ever
bought new.

7:15 a.m. - 2002-11-23

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