Brown Stones

 

Our quiet street’s one way, cars sleeping both sides
Room for one boy’s car, he waves and glides by
Tree’s trellis once offered shade from the day’s heat
They were cut down too early, taking our relief

Stoops store the sun’s warmth, evening breezes equalize
Pushing away the clouds to see the stars, and clear skies
An A.C. was running loudly and Dad lost his poise
A girl yelled back, “He’s sick, sorry for the noise”

“He’s ill and hoping, you’ll enjoy your presents”
My Dad’s feeling sad now, really reticent
Sending the young girl to meet the truck driver
He hands her the stylus accepting for neighbors

And for the old man’s happiness, on his last night
His smile never left his face on his final flight
The years have been good to us with happy memories
Knowing we’ll fly into afterwards with comfort and ease

© 2014 Michael Yost 03/02

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