The old men come to see me.
And they are wary.
As men usually are.

They will submit to my touch.
And can't imagine that the
hand of another man could ever
help much, or for long.

I wait, imagining myself pliable.
And when the sad burden of
their life rises to the surface,
that is what I finally palpate.

They begin to move me with
their unrequited longing to rest
in a place no one has encouraged them to go.
And I simply follow them there.

"I'm doing better". They say,
"You've done a good job".

Like a key in a lock, their
words open my heart.
And I know I can never
get enough of this.

The old men come to see me
And for that, I will always 
remain here.

Barrett L. Dorko