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This paper before me is worth more than gold,
Than all of the stocks that are bought and are sold.
It is not a map where an X marks the treasure
Nor is it a ticket to life’s greatest pleasure.
It is not a sketch by Picasso, van Gogh,
Nor numbers that won the world’s richest Lotto.
I have that which gives me more than the world’s wealth:
My doctor just gave me a clean bill of health.

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photo by Marcelo Mokrejs at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/misbtmE/Money+series+4

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

 

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He walked, a stick, both lean and tall,
The streets, both night and day;
Disturbed by demons, not by tasks,
That wouldn’t go away.

He never leaned upon a stick
Like some men do to rest.
He never slowed, as if pursued,
And by a past possessed.

The only stops I saw him make,
To light a stick to smoke,
Were stops that fin’lly stopped him cold,
When cancer killed the bloke.

His treatment was both stick and shock,
The needle and the zap;
As if they knew not where to go,
As if they’d lost the map.

He told me often of his past;
The doctors made it stick
By talking, talking of his woes,
As if that’d do the trick.

My idea was much different,
To place a stick before,
A future stake, a goal to reach,
And past be nevermore.

But like the 45’s we had,
And all the 33’s,
The records scratched, they jerk and stick,
Repeating in a freeze.

He haunted haunts, since haunted by
A past that came to stay.
He walked, a stick, both lean and tall,
The streets, both night and day.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.

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