On ol' Lincoln Street
I’ve often thought if I could go,
Down Lincoln Street the old folks know,
I’d find again that battered door,
The cracked front step, the maple floor.
The Hogans’ porch with screens half-torn,
The Canesteros’ driveway court
The slap of ball on summer air…
The shouts still hanging everywhere.
The Michalkos’ lilacs lined our way,
And children’s shouts still ruled the day.
Two sisters’ laughter down the lane,
A brother’s ball against the grain.
A mother’s call at setting sun,
A father’s whistle - day is done.
We knew each tree, each mailbox dent,
Each summer storm the elm limbs bent.
The smell of cut grass, tar, and rain,
The world was small, but never plain.
They say the elms gave up, gave way,
That porches lean, that paint’s gone gray.
But in my mind they arch and weave,
A roof for children make-believe.
No better place my heart has found
Than that small plot of hometown ground,
Where time once let a boy pretend
The good would hold, and not near end.
GBS
1990
0 Comments