Richard Thomas | + Follow Poet |
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The Back Door

In our neighborhood during the second world war
At the side of each house were a porch and a door.
And, believe it or not, it was always unlocked
When a tradesman or stranger or visitor knocked.

Around dawn men arrived who at doorsteps would lay
All the baked goods and milk patrons needed that day.
And the women would once a week purchased their meat
From the truck of a butcher who stopped on our street.

Before fridges, remembered by we who are old
Was the ice box in kitchens that kept the food cold.
Using tongs, blocks of ice were delivered by men
Who before they had melted would come back again.

Also, door-to-door salesmen would try to persuade
All the wives that their products were best ever made.
And our neighbor would daily come by for a spell
To a recipe share or with gossip to tell.

In the middle of autumn, the coal truck returned
To replenish the piles that the furnace had burned.
Down long chutes made of metal would tumble and roar
Tons of coal that filled bins on our bare cellar floor.

Roving hobos quite often would rap on the door.
Without jobs or a home, they for food would implore.
The depression still lingered, so mothers would feel
Sympathetic and always provided a meal.

And to parents'displeasure, the screen doors would bang
As kids hurried from houses to be with the gang.
We would gather on lots that were vacant to play
Or would wander the countryside nearly all day.

When it rained, on a porch that was covered we'd meet
To with checkers or Clue or Parcheesi compete.
We swapped marbles, pitched pennies, played poker for fun,
And our comic books read till return of the sun.

At the back door we'd weekly the paper boy pay,
And the mail was delivered then two times a day.
If it weren't for the doctor who'd come when we call,
We would never had needed a front door at all.

Copyright © Richard Thomas | Year Posted 2019

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