Tuesday, September 14, 2010


At the delayed green traffic light,
no one’s out tonight, just past eleven.
He’s one of the few, who still listens to the radio,
and one of the fewer who listens to classic rock.
“I listen when I’m in the mood, of course,”
is what he says when people ask him about it.
Tonight he turns it up when he hears the harmonica
at the beginning of a Neil Young song and
wonders if this is the one from so long ago
that made him want to buy a harmonica.
Not a plastic one from Hoy’s Five and Ten
or a cheap one from Dellas General Merchandise,
but a shiny chrome looking one with Hohner
emblazoned on the side. Ones locked away
in a little glass cabinet that spun around on top
of the counter at the paper store, Keltie’s News.
Next to them, sat displays of Imperial pocket knives,
corn cob pipes, White Owl cigars, Ajax unbreakable combs.
And as the light changes, he thinks of how long it’s been,
how he can’t go there, how it can’t be found anymore.
“It’s all gone,” he mumbles aloud, “Man, I’m getting old”.


WR said...

You've hit one of the terrible parts of aging. So much of even the warmest memories are.attached to physical place must be its own bed rock. The buildings, the landscape all change and the people who populate the scenery pass on. We carry the maps in 3D in our minds.

I chuckle about the one ~ all shiny and new for a similiar reason. Never succeeded at learning to play though. Ah well...

Anonymous said...

Hey man, nice poem. My first stop by your blog. Caught you on Twitter. Good work


Luke @ WordSalad