Sunday, January 23, 2011

The Old Suit

His words don’t come easy, they’re real hard to find
His clothes they are tethered, his smile it is kind

His hands they are callused and wrinkled from age
His brow is sun weathered but he never complains

He’s as gentle as a new born asleep in the night
If he thinks he’s threatened, prepare for a fight

When Sunday comes round, the old suit he adorns
The same worn out suit from decades before

His family they sit at the table and pray
They give thanks for the food they are eating today

Tomorrow he’ll leave for another day’s wages
And repeat the same thing he’s been doing for ages

His life like it’s scripted from out of a book
He goes with a smile and no second look

But this day he’s late, then comes the phone
Momma is crying he’s not coming home

I remember so well the day he went away
I still have that suit and I wear it Sunday

The funny thing is that I have to say
That tethered old suit starting looking brand new that day


Shane Ryans said...

What a great and moving poem. Brings back some sad but good memories.

The Public Eye said...

thank you