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Poem

In those early years, growing up in the country
Walking barefoot, on old gravel roads
With neighborhood friends, a dog or two
Pulling a wagon of pop bottle gold

We were pirates, marauders, searching for treasure
In the ditches, as we walked, to the store
In simpler days, with much simpler ways
Soon, to pass in, to folklore

It had an old screen door, with a long squeaky spring
Which greeted you as you entered
Slapping shut behind you, with a distinctive,  CLAP!
Bringing the storekeeper front and center

While the old man figured, what was already known
We each grabbed a little paper sack
Just like 49'ers, digging for gold
We mined the penny candy rack

The thick gray planks, were buckled from age
Some held by a single nail
A few odd chairs, scattered about
Hosts to many an exaggerated tale

So many memories from that old porch
Telling stories and eating ice cream
Counting the cars, on the passing freight trains
Each one, hauling a different dream

Over a half a century, since those boyhood days
 But I can still hear that clicketty-clack 
Still taste the penny candy, see the old man smile
Hear him say," Thank you and ya'll come back.


    by Daniel Turner

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