The Scars

The Scars

As an old man I have

Memories of life and adventure

In this new age of instant visions

I've seen a photo

Of a naked twenty-something

Peter Hujar running

In his photo from the Met

An unprompted artist

Like me

His beautiful body should not

Be my desire

Because I know the truth

With a capital T

As age, isolation, and failing health

Can't entice any friendship

Such a sudden image delivery

Only reminds me of the travails

Of my youth witnessed by the scars

Both outside my empained frame

And the ones unseen

That I carry to remind me

How I must live now without

A careless walk through 

Mental jungles and those dangerous

Smooth lawns throwing and hitting

The balls of game and competition

Surely an old man could love

Though an older man 

With his own scars of battle

Would be more appropriate

As I review my own marks

Upon my aching physique

And a soul whose thunder

Is rolling away hectare by hectare

In remembrance of storms

No longer sending me

To seek the shelter of known

And unknown gods and spirits

A young man will find his own

Scars

Many years in the future

If he's careful to value every gift

I will continue the last crawl

Only searching for a worthy end

Another image comes to mind

I think how lucky Whitman was

To have the help of Bill Duckett

Who posed for Thomas Eakins

In the same natural clothes

I have seen today

Old Walt was closer to a dream

Than I will ever be

I only have to sit granite still

As memory's attack begins

All the marks are gently reviewed

I am their victim and joyful subject

Filled with life that continues

To massage my scars

From a cloudy sky

To a bright blue morning

Barry G. Wick