Published on: 2/17/2015
Second-Hand

You ask me why do I buy second-hand, untempted by the new.
I say some impulse makes me deck myself in quaintly vintage stains;
it is the impulse that keeps drawing me to you.

There is no newness to be found in these ghost-haunted, ancient rooms,
if not the newness of two souls mixing their pains.
You ask me why do I buy second-hand, untempted by the new.

I cite the hope that makes the fleeting bird repeat his age-old tune,
warbling anew the hoarse millennial refrain.
It is the impulse that keeps drawing me to you.

It is the impulse of the sun always returning to our ruins
and of the madman who can still recall his name.
You ask me why do I buy second-hand, untempted by the new.

I cite the crowning of man's shameful night in tiny pearls of dew
that pour their water on our parched, polluted plains.
It is the impulse that keeps drawing me to you.

It is the placing of our tattered hearts like spring's first blood-red bloom
up in the windowsill to greet the coming day.
You ask me why do I buy second-hand, untempted by the new
It is the impulse that keeps drawing me to you.