I stopped by a house
where I once lived-
the gravel driveway
following a rundown
fence, electrified landscape
in my mind. Where
country children
played with sticks
and hay bales;
imagining, I believe,
to be explorers of
vast and wonderful
territories. Before long,
the side-screen door
of the double wide
mobile home opens
and a mother voice
announces dinner.
In they run–dusty
bare feet–to smell
the fresh bread of
fading Childhood’s joy.
When dinner is eaten
(sloppy, messy) and
chores are done by
tough little hands,
a golden sunset light
trips over acres
of brush, cattle and
alfalfa to finally pour
into a drafty window;
illuminating the family
room, heated by a wood
stove in winter days.
The family of six,
smiling and twinkling,
sit quietly (ghostly)
in dusty chairs
of my Memory.


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