The Man Who Never Left His Home

There once was a man who never ventured out

Of his shut-up room, in his shut-up house

Filled with shut-up crates, boxes and bags,

Stacked high on top of shelves to gather dust.


The man was ill, not sick to the head,

Who always preferred but was not confined to the bed,

For his illness was brought on him by the amount of nag

He was subjected to, for others felt they must.


Every day there was something new

“For you to try, for you to do”

Although the man was quite content

Continuing as he were.


His happiness was a strange sort

Which always transforms, always contorts,

So schedules never fit the man no matter where he went

Even though he’s tried them all before.



I remember…


I often forget where I put my stuff,

I often forget memorable places,

I often forget what I am to do,

And I always forget people’s faces.


It might be that I try to leave

Memories far behind,

Or that I simply don’t see

What I’m not looking to find.


If I happen to recognize

You while walking down the street,

Please don’t be offended when

I’m staring at my feet.


It’s not that I don’t know who you are,

Or even that I don’t care.

It’s that the past is a long lost scent,

While the future holds clean air.


But there was once a passing look

That I actually gazed into the eyes,

And caught a glimpse of what I had missed,

And what I had feared and despised.


And ever since that parting glance,

I’ve remembered your face very clear.

And while other faces fall far, far away,

Yours always stays very near.