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The Old Me

Jeanine Walker | Poetry

In its plastic case I held a Sanskrit
Buddhist manuscript a thousand
years old. “That’s eight million
dollars,” my friend said as the elevator
door banged open. “Be careful.”
So gentle, those words, such trust as I
carried it down the dark hall—only
the professor who lives with his hot plate
in office 408 has used this building
the past eighteen months—
and I think of the accumulation
of dollar books and thrift store jeans
in my half-abandoned home
in Seattle. In a thousand years
I’d never let a new friend carry
an eight-million-dollar document.
Or anyway, the old me wouldn’t have.
Here, though, I am unattached from things,
from money, know that when I leave
I’ll leave behind more than I brought:
through beveled windows, a peace
pulsing in the morning light,
me sitting up each day,
pen in hand, ready to write.