Fading images on the distant street
Walking and gesturing conversation
In a neighborhood of quiet shadows
And a receding soft afternoon’s feel
A mother calls her children to supper
A screen door slams, a distant train whistle
A warm breeze carries the scent of mowed grass
As stray leaves dance along the narrow street
I sit quietly, watching from my steps
A worn mitt and rubber ball in my hands
Cool sweat on my face, from bouncing and grab
Transistor radio dialed to baseball
A front porch swing rocking, a daydreaming girl
Her soft shy smile catches my attention
A distant neighbor hand trucks his trash cans
Out to the street for morning pick up wait
Looking back, I see a now empty swing
From the front door, my mother calls me in
I stand wiping my face with my shirt sleeve
Glove and radio in hand, I retreat
The day ended, but not the memory
Photographs, forever in my mind’s eye
© Copyrights G. Jones 2006
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