The children played
On the swings.
His granddaughter sat
In the sandbox.
He stared down the bank
At the river
And watched the carp
Work at the bottom;
Mud trails followed
After them.
Twenty years ago
He stood by the paint shed;
Right about where
the monkey bars are now
in his work boots
and hard hat.
On a coffee break he watched
The carp work at the bottom;
Mud trails followed
After them.
This is Lou’s poem found scrawled and pegged to a cork board when cleaning out our parent’s house.
There is a path through the ruins where one can amble for quiet hours
taking care not to trip over what once was overhead.
Or fall into the leavings below.
Where once were sirens, whistles, smoke, roars and crashing,
Are now trees, brush, and birds-the twittering sentinels
Of what has passed.
The path probably started as a path-a deer trail through the woods.
Then it became a road that first wagons and carts
then cars and trucks hustled commerce along.
None of those could pick a trail through now.
It’s reverted to a deer trail again, fit only for careful feet, bicycles or, I suppose a horse and rider.
But a horse, though trained, is not much different than the rodents, deer and coyotes
that now use this thoroughfare.
Ruined for us by us.
Thus saved.
Hot Bottoms 