Time's Peddlar

Some days seem old when they begin,

the sense, that somehow they've been lived-

as if past's vagabond had bundled time

and wandered to my when.

On my doorstep,

In cold blue mist, a peddlar with his pack

of sorrows pawned,

every trade made for tomorrow,

all tomorrows sold and gone,

he's worn and weary,

so, I make a pot of tea,

he smiles lopsided eyes and shares a cup with me,

his pack of secret things clangs softly on the ground.

In burlap rustling round,

rough hands bring out his goods,

shine's newness gone from dinged up,

scratched things, all well used.

He holds them out like gold,

this iron pot will hold an endless winter's hope,

small spoons of tin will skim love's skin off stolen hours,

these simple bowls employ the power

of grinding truth, these pliers will pull a liar's tooth.

His empty mouth, a testament to faith

in his own penance,

it seemed strange- the judge commiting

every crime he'd pay.

He told me life's a circling play,

it comes again, the same old spaces,

changing props and painting faces-

but, it's all the same.

He held a tattered cloak, he said, 

it hides my shame.

He laughed at that, then put it back, repacked,

he stood and rambled off.

a small, vague wave.

I watched him slowly walk the sun's pale rays,

as if each ambling step could cover days,

one blink and he was gone away,

left to live out my old, done day,

I climbed the stairs

and went to bed again.