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Memory from an aging soul (Poem)



I can remember gossamer spider’s threads
dancing gently in the morning’s soft breeze
amid rose buds near my left hand
sunlight dripping off maple leaves and
the trees swaying in hushed whispers

upon my grandfather’s tilted front porch
the front door open and the smell of frying grease wafting out
the smell of a camel cigarette burning tossed into the lawn
I’m but a boy
in shorts and a t-shirt
complete with new soul smell

observing the light as it is fresh in the city sky

God, I can see it all
I can feel the heat of it on my face
feel the wood still cool from the night before
as my foot slides down to the next step
slick with the dew of the grass I trod upon

my grandfather, long in the tooth, and in the face, and in life
sitting in a lawn chair his voice too far away in my memory to be heard
and my grandmother standing behind me, hand on her thick hip
watching the street with an old dishrag in her hand

An America flag flies near my head
stars and stripes and blue of royalty
but us ramshackle folk
Irish in our tempers
poor Catholic descendants
all sit in the quiet morning sunlight
in a memory from some deep recess
of my aging soul

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