Old Paths
Do paths and rooms have memories of our being,
and think of us as time has passed on by?
Do voices echo still in empty houses,
and soft in bittersweet refrain reply?
I think these streets know of our being then,
twisting to music flowing from screen doors,
the days of nickel candy bars and dreams,
and baby’s hands and knees on hardwood floors.
This neighborhood became a sordid sewer.
Laughter was soon killed by drugs and crime.
Nostalgic are the days when fears were fewer
and nothing was as sweet as summertime.
A weeping willow once waved in the yard.
Now gone a naked trunk’s remembering,
the man, the woman and the little girls,
from Sixties' years of Kennedy and King.
11/15/16
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