Questions
They smelled of time and of old men's cologne.
Many were ill and seemed impossibly frail.
Some were silent and just wanted to be left alone,
While others, mad as hatters, turned me pale.
But some, when asked would they like a shine,
Smiled with frank and lucid animation
And offered their wingtips to my little box of pine
While engaging some old croney in conversation.
The Old Folks Home paid me a dime a pair.
On a Saturday I could make three dollars or more.
I had no thought as I knelt and polished there
That these men's fathers had fought the Civil War.
Imagine the questions when I performed that childhood task
That now I wish I had been old enough to ask.