Soul of an Old Poet
I met an Old Poet at the cemetery gates one day when I was just a boy. We walked and talked and I asked him if he was here to visit someone and he says to me,
ìSon, Iím here to lay my old bones next to my wife who died here thirty years ago today.î And he goes on to tell me, ìMy soulís heavy and Iím tired a caryiní it ëround this here old world. Good soul though, served me well and kept me out of some things and gotten me into others. Itíd be a shame to just give it up to nothiní.î
I said to him, ìIíll buy that old soul from you, so youíll know itíll be in a good place.î And I offered him a bottle of wine Iíd brought with me to feed to my grandpaís ghost. The Old Poet drank the whole thing down in one gulp and then corked the bottle and handed it to me and then lay down right there on his old womanís grave and died.
I took the bottle home and put it on my windowsill, where it still sits to this day.
And when I am an old man, Iíll take that bottle down and pop the cork and the old Poet, heíll climb from the bottle and shake the years from his bones. Then weíll sit and talk all night, share a bottle of wine and laugh at the Moon.