Poetry

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An old man wore a tattered polo
In a worn out shade of murky blue
As he walked amidst a well-dressed crowd
During my father's funeral

That man, his hair all gray,
His skin all wrinkled with age;
Such a little man, yet such
A bundle of strength
Walked the winding road
To my father's resting place

Those pants that once gloried
In their blackness
Now aged in prouder gray
How many toddlers must have sat
Upon that nimble lap and got
A smile from that tired face?

I saw with my heart's eye
How he treasured those worn out clothes
The years had passed, yet not
The fondness he had
Of those tattered blue and gray clothes

The day before, when no one else came
To lend us the comfort of their arms
That old man arrived; A sack of sawdust
He carried on his back

He told us his pockets were empty,
That he had no possession to ease our hearts,
Except a sack of sawdust
To put our pots upon

That man, with his worn out clothes
Won my high regard
For he chose to wear what money can't buy
He came and wore his heart.

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