The old man
on the freeway exit,
his coat and his dog
having seen better days.
The young man
at the entrance to the store,
frailing his banjo
with his case open below—
I turn my eyes.
But yesterday
I saw a man
holding up a cardboard sign,
damp from the falling rain.
No explanation—
just that single word.
When I stopped
to give him a five-dollar bill,
he told me he was working
to find a fix
and I knew what he meant.
We had a Christmas horse
a marionette
my parents’ New Orleans gift.
Pink paint and yarn
and shiny gold paper.
A proud gait.
Each year it hung from our advent mantel,
figures coming
one by one
each day of December—
old familiar friends.
It came to my house
when my parents died.
We struggled with its strings,
tangled like Christmas lights,
the pale horse
a little more worn
a little less proud.
With our children all grown,
homes of their own,
we gave away our advent figures.
My daughter took the horse.
A long silence
the last two years—
that silence,
harder to read
than the cardboard sign—
but yesterday
she sent a photo
of the marionette
hanging from her mantel.
I hope I know what she meant.