My SoulIn the suburbs on a bike path that in
any other age would be a road roughed
halfway through some dark wood's listening heart
two damp young men in suits sucked dry of light
walk stiffly and uncertain round a bend
in each left hand the black text of a book
They see me then spread out to fill the way
as sun blares down and dry May wind slaps
cheap loose plastic cloth against their shins
The thinner taller blond one greets me in
an earnest tone these days not often heard
and when I do not take his offered hand
surprised he pulls it back by jerked degrees
says I'm Elder White this is Elder Cole
We'd like to talk with you about
Then without my willing it this left palm
rises as if to let them read what life
has written there and with eyes as steady
as I always hoped they were I meet the
blue and shaking gaze of this elder who
is younger than my unborn son's first son
and without warmth or cold not harsh or kind
say I do not want to talk about this
These boys awkward in cloth and flesh of men
stammer in relief their soft farewells
and what I would not let them save or name
stands long in silence looking after them
– Richard Lehnert (from Poetry)