I found this poem in some papers. I wrote it when I was 22. I had a strong urge to edit it, but resisted.


An old man stumbled through the door
his overcoat gray and solemn December
Stark against the glassed-out sunlight
he fumbled, spoke with a voice like cracked marble
"My name is O.L. Brown. I sell matches."
He dropped a brown suitcase like a basket of bricks
the leather scratched and scarred with years of layered sweat-
the young man's nervous sweat in buffed-brass waiting rooms
the old man's thin moan of beaded sweat
mapping the wrinkles on his face with moisture
and the dust of the road.
"35 years in the Advertising Game"
he winked with a salesman's rude charm
"My matches have carried names of men great and small
into the pants pockets of America.
My matches have shouted manure to hog farmers-
have sung silver against the cigarettes of rich men.
They have told barroom secrets to distrustful wives
they have flamed for seven men-all strangers.
For 35 years they have flashed
in the cupped hands of nameless people.
For 35 years they have told stories to chance eyes.
For 35 years they have kept me from the cold."
He smiled and held out a crooked hand.
Small flames glowed behind his eyes.
I reached out to take his hand.
A matchbook fell with a whisper into my palm.
O.L. Brown
35 Years in Matches