Old Timer - Poem by Sean Woods
Maybe you have made it,
sitting in your chair at the head of the table
one hour a day,
every day, or almost every day,
for twenty years.
There were close slips.
Life can throw out some nasty shit.
Phone calls reaching out in the middle of the night
searching for someone who knew a little more than you,
might have saved your one once worthless ass.
You’ve sat at the end of the table,
spilled your guts every day,
or almost every day,
for over twenty years now.
Penance for a sin committed upon yourself.
You’ve seen them come and go,
barely alive, shaking, mumbling…
Heard the bullshit, the lies, beauty, and wisdom,
coming from insane voices who’ve
been living on the streets, eating out of trash cans,
fighting, living, dying, despair, faith…
Eyes clearing with the knowledge that there is hope
or slowly yellowing as they give up to the beast.
How many lives have you saved,
by just sitting at the end of the table
every day, or almost every day
for twenty years,
keeping your once worthless ass clean
while helping the ones more insane than you?
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