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*Image of The Old Shed by Pixabay.

Still Here

He was the tourist trade foremost embellisher,
               his Aloha shirts receptive then, and
               now respecting a closet.

Regale lava-covered isles, swathed in white flags,
               succumbed to skyscrapers,
               and tremendous crowds.

His chord, an isolated tool, tranced the sways,
               encased uke leans on clutter,
               a harmonica tags the bestilled.

A kid drilled, backs out a Chevy, to looks of relief.
               Rusty toolbox by a heap,
               chanced ferns sprouting rights.

On a mat with a bloody nose head back, learns to block,
               gloves on a wall...glad to know how to defend,
               and glad to have the seldom use of it.

Handheld twirling blade lawnmower, a sickle, and rake.
               An old tool shed, shelved three wood handles
               minus their mettle, as well as their mentor.

You paid a buck for our house...realtor extraordinaire,
               and mom's limited knowledge about land, you
               left her the trust and deeds~you both left me.

It has been beyond years, young that you were, a period
               I furthered. Gone too soon, yet there's so much
               of you still here, that it dawns~you've never left.

*For my dad, Joe; 1931-1989.

2023 January 20
*HM*
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~Brian Strand: Judged 2023 January 21

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