Old Man in Kimono

Old Man in Kimono

the rug was red
the lamp was white
another lamp, like yellow-green grapes, hung over a piano
the television was in a large wooden box
another wooden box held a phonograph

there was a yellowing table near where i played
there, an old man in kimono sat, cross-legged
eating rice with chopsticks

my mother could see me from the kitchen
the man on the tv started talking seriously
so she came in the room

something bad had happened

she sat down next to me
and held me close to her
as she gazed at the tv
with tears in her eyes

but the old man in kimono
never moved to help her

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Daily Prompt: What are the earliest memories of the place you lived in as a child? Describe your house. What did it look like? How did it smell? What did it sound like? Was it quiet like a library, or full of the noise of life? Tell us all about it, in as much detail as you can recall.

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2 Thoughts to “Old Man in Kimono

  1. Owen, the experience of “feeling” this poem, through your written word, is a gift to all who read it. Sad reminders expressed in beautiful ways, heal.

  2. Barring that moment when God couldn’t find Adam, I still think of that November day as the worst one in the whole universe of all time.

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