Don’t Mumble

The old guy whittles a stick.

Wielding a knife that sharp
with that sloppy skill
he should cut himself
slice a chunk out
but he doesn’t.
It’s going to be either
a snake head
or a duck — but I won’t speculate.
Not if I want to hang around
and catch shavings of wisdom that
peel off like layers of skin
or ears or spare fingers
or pieces of stick for that matter.

I want to ask him
and I wish I knew the question
but he knows the answer
if he can remember.

He peers at the slowly molting wood
through spectacles almost as cloudy
as my perception of him.
How can he see what he does?
How can I see him,
separated as we are
by his stubborn silence
and my stubborn need
to whittle away?

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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