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arts / alt.arts.poetry.comments / Hop Scotch and Old Men Playing Chess

Hop Scotch and Old Men Playing Chess

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Subject: Hop Scotch and Old Men Playing Chess
From: blackpoo...@aol.com (Edward Rochester Esq.)
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by: Edward Rochester Esq - Thu, 23 Mar 2023 14:15 UTC

Bus Station

It was slowly slipping away,
that difficult grip burns
and below becomes reality
with one simple release, the tumble
will close the eyes:

I knew my mother would be dead
within a year of moving from her home.

You can't leave a place where children cried
and laughed, where the smell of meals
and chirp of a pet parakeet filled Sundays,
where fresh cut wood became rafters
and walls and floors wore a new shine
of beginning.

You can't remove the echo’s, pack them
alongside sweaters and venture into new surroundings,
far but not removed from old memories.

The children have left; a husband’s heart no longer beats
and it was time to move on, not to a new home,
more a bus station waiting for the last ride
and it was -- my mother dying within a year.

I'm sure she sat in that plush chair she loved
and remembered all of it, as I do now for her.

I drive past that old house observing the new inhabitants
knowing fresh paint and rugs will never erase
our time there.

Remembering when it was a twig so many years ago --
the oak tree, now tall and majestic on the front lawn
waves as I drive by.

We were all just twigs back then.

by Edward Rochester Esq.

Subject	Author
Hop Scotch and Old Men Playing Chess	Edward Rochester Esq.