As a boy I would stay
awake at night,
Watching shadows on the patterned ceiling,
While cars raced
To the left
And to the right.
In the distance,
I’d hear tyres
squealing.
On occasion heavy-loaded trucks passed,
Rumbling like
thunder,
Brightening like lightning,
Shaking windows
Of fragile
coloured glass,
Bumping potholes too
hard,
Jarring,
Frightening.
By day the street
was quiet,
Almost calm.
Horses led carts
Bringing fresh
bread and milk,
Sounds of cows,
Lowing at the
college farm.
In clear air
The mountains glowed,
Pure blue silk.
It was such a
simple home,
Two bedrooms,
Toilet out back,
By the tomato
patch,
A clothesline
forked
Near honeysuckle
blooms,
Caged chickens
Laying eggs that
never hatched.
When the sun sank,
Splashing ochre on
clouds,
Bringing the cool
stillness of dusk,
Then night,
Above the vacant
lots,
To tempt the
crowds,
A picture house’s
green neon shone bright.
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