Scratches

I love the look of an old man’s Ford -

the scratches on the dented door,

the creeping crack wandering across

the windshield at about the speed

of the old man’s shuffling gait.

And the wood on a well-played Taylor guitar -

the faded spot that’s lost

it’s lacquer, the fraying strings

that sing of too-late nights

in smokey downtown bars.

But I love it less

when you can see beneath

my outer coat,

when you can see that there is rust

and wear and plenty of dirt

for all of us.

  It is then we must remind ourselves

that life was meant to be deeply lived

and not preserved.