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
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
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.