Man in Sandals

In two months
he will explore his options
under Medicare Part B.

For thirty years
he wore a suit and tie
and wing-tipped brogans.

He commuted three hours-a-day
round trip
and wrestled with judges
and DAs for eight hours
in between.

He drank three martinis
and a six pack
every night,
but he never drank before five.

He raised two kids
with one wife
and two more
with another.

He paid income tax,
social security tax,
real estate tax,
school tax,
sales tax,
commercial rent tax,
commuter tax,
medical insurance,
car insurance,
homeowners insurance,
life insurance,
malpractice insurance,
office rent,
two mortgages,
gas, electric and telephone,
car loans,
credit cards,
student loans
and medical bills up to his
…$5,000 annual deductible.

Six figures wasn’t always enough.
And there wasn’t always
the six. Sometimes it was five,
sometimes a low five.

All the while, late at night,
he wrote the kind of hard poetry
that other guys
would understand.
They’d nod
and say, “Amen, brother.”

Amen.

He doesn’t tuck his shirt in anymore.
He rarely wears long pants.
It’s not anything
he thinks about.

On the trip from New York
to Yellow Springs,
“600 miles and a lot of shit,”
he says,
he picked up
an extra thirty pounds,
thinning gray hair,
bad eyes, ears and teeth,
a slouch,
and a shuffle when he walks
down Xenia Avenue
in his knock-off Birkenstocks.

“I’ve paid for these sandals,”
he tells the boys on the bench
in front of Tom’s Market.