Old Trusty

I caught a hint of You in the overcast sky today,

when the storm threatened inside instead of outside.

Then You — old trusty,

massive, anxiety-inducing,

dusty and decrepit friend

that You are —

showed up unannounced,

dressed as me in despair.

There You are, my friend.

I thought You’d gone for good; it startled,

Your absence a foreign, fizzy-warm

sensation threatening to overtake me with joy.

As soon as it came, You seemed to vanish…

Is joy the foil to Your soggy, once-blue overcoat?

Can I wear You no more, familiar friend,

if I sup on that sweetest nectar while in Your care?

Will You vanish like a burden shifting its distribution?

Perhaps Your tattered tan trousers will tear just a touch more,

before they too are bound and thrown on the pyre of time’s passage —

incineration and ash for the yesteryears worn.

As are all Your gloomy accoutrements, my friend:

shoes torn, toes showing through tears.

You look a fright as me —

blisters bleeding from journeys long,

tired tales untold too long,

frayed fabric of the familiar friend worn and lived.

Despair, the fond farewell to garments of skin.

As always Dust,

To you,

For you,

From Him,

In Me.