There was an old shoe who lived with a woman.
They did not meet until she was twenty-one.
Their history to that point she had clean out-run,
so ever-never they'd met in any one-on-one.
He stood on the porch, suitcase he'd none,
his old hat in hand, and just ready to run.
"I'm your father. Yes, I'm that son-of-a-gun.
Please, I've got no excuses, but I'm not done."
The young woman was shocked, quite undone,
but begged he enter. She had no heart to shun
him, this man whose face mirrored her own.
His clothes old and ragged, almost homespun.
Years were lost, it was true. But they had won
the right to start over, perhaps. It had begun
at least, with big risks on both their parts. Tons
to cover, would there be time? His news stunned
her. "I've not long to live; my health's not A-1."
Their stories came out just like machine-guns.
Her house was his. He sat in the back in the sun.
Their regrets did not get in the way of hard-won
peace between them. His life had been all-or-none.
She forgave his lost past, now so soon to be gone.
He forgave himself for all that could not be redone.
Old shoe now empty, Death-winner in the long run.
Copyrighted by CarolGee. January 4, 2006
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