Front Porch Review
A literary magazine for the young at heart and mind

Old men need more light, so he must wait
at the top of the stairs for his eyes
to illuminate the dark pool.
The basement floor is scarred by decades
of hard things dragged to other rooms.

He still has faith in the power of his hands,
and somewhere in a niche, a reluctant drawer,
behind a door, he knows the very tool
he needs has been cast aside and waits
to be useful, for a task he struggles to remember.

When he stoops to search, his temples thicken,
and rising, wheels of color spin behind his eyes.
He tugs and pushes at the drawers, enjoys cathartic
slams, shuffles through tacks and screws and nails
that prick his clumsy fingers, turns up random
shotgun shells and blinks away the image of the gun.

He pokes about in his memory for the way
his late wife would say, I don't do that
to bother you, then look away,
as if his face would burn. Later, in the car, she'd put
her hand down in his lap, as if offering a gift.

At last, forgetting why he came, he climbs the stairs,
and bears his weight like an animal he'd killed
and now must carry home. So what have you
accomplished? she whispers in his head,
as he plunges back into the light.

By David Hart

David Hart was born and raised, more or less, in Galesburg, Illinois, a small town and birthplace of another poet, Carl Sandberg, who was heartily detested by those locals who knew him. The main diversions in Galesburg were dating, beer and golf. David didn't play golf, but he did manage to read a couple of books before he left for college. He majored in English at Northwestern with the hope of being a writer ─ fame, women, wine and long hair ─ but decided he could make a better living at something less reputable. He attended Harvard Law School, practiced in Chicago for about thirty years, retired early, lost his hair, and is dependent upon his wife for support in his dotage.