telephone pole

I grazed my hand
                                          up
                                                      and
                                                                    down
            the telephone pole,
as I had seen its
                                         familiar face
                                                        in passing.
                           The brown wooden piece
                                                                                  towers
                                                                                               over me,
                                                        still and silent.
                His skin suntanned
                                           in different shades
                                                                      from present weatherings
                                                                                   and past seasons.
                                          His body stapled
                                                                      from lingering white edgings,
                                                                                                               remnants
                                                                                    from those
                                                                     who shared their knowledge.
                                          He stands tall
                           absorbing posted messages.
I envy his
                                         metal scars.
            He carries them like trophies
                                        among the distanced woodland.
Each puncture,
                           holding stories and secrets,
             noticed without begging.
There the oak stands–
the infamous bearer
of truth.