The old man walks the length of the library
in a meandering line,
stumble-stepping along the low-pile carpet;
a wearying journey he undertakes dutifully,
tracing a convoluted path through unseen obstacles.
His trail traverses inner wilderness
accommodating hidden geographical features;
a personal Lewis & Clark excursion
through a geriatric landscape
of ancient river channels
and crumbled mountain ranges.
He passes like a wobbling prairie schooner,
his suspenders curiously attached—
two clamped side-by-side, off-center at the back of his pants,
a third wrapped halfway around his flank. A third?
To decipher their arrangement, where they begin and end,
needs more time; but his shuffling, laborious walk
is captivating and demands attention.
Pulling at one slack-skinned arm
a large, rectangular, stiff-sided case finished in black vinyl,
lugged against gravity’s taunting insistence;
an old case, outmoded, redolent of Willy Loman,
with top flaps that stack one over the other
and a squared-off handle poking up through them.
He embarked on his journey
with an announcement of forceful, phlegmy
throat-clearings as he rose from his chair:
one should always begin a long journey
with a clear throat and a good map.
