Monday, April 7, 2014

All these years


All these years, and the old bank building
still blushes in the morning light,
her stern face warming
a color at a time.

And there’s a story about her,
with a rose, and a hat, and a ribbon,
and a meadow.

It seems in her youth she was wooed
by the saloon across the street,
where Granddad drank and talked
and smoked.

But her old man was practical:
the saloon was bought off somehow,
its dry boards painted, and given
a shiny new door knob.

The bank sighed through her ceiling fans;
grew distant and cold; hated her pa
in his hat and suspenders, and especially
his money.

When I was a boy, I hated him too.

I was in love with her strange perfume.

So what did I do?

I hid a penny in her wall.

And it was this light that made me think of it now.



6 comments:

Jan said...

William, you have totally outdone yourself, and this is hard for you to do :)) I absolutely love this!!! Bravo, my dear friend!!!

William Michaelian said...

Jan, you warm my heart, and in a way only an old friend can do.

Joseph Hutchison said...

Wow! Good heavens, man, you are on a roll these days. Poems we can walk around in with the sun our faces....

William Michaelian said...

...while I’m locked up, without the good sense to be out there in it...

awyn said...

I wonder if buildings remember us, their steps and walls and ceilings recording each visit; remodeled, re-peopled, still there, watching the decades pass. Thank you for this lovely poem, William. It brought back similar memories.

William Michaelian said...

Thanks very much, Annie....