Deserted Streets

Imprints worn and weary, cleansed
By remembrances of lost ways and traditions
the sands of the hourglass slowly shift
----into the now----
digits form impersonal greetings
while extinct front porch swings' ghosts tell stories
large family gatherings, Grandmother humming
mother knitting, Father's pipe smoking circled rings
around that closeness
which came every night, from the faint sound
of easy chairs rocking, Johnny's knees knocking,
and I in my lace waiting for future to come

we were taken to the future one night
when the chestnut tree fell
upon the front porch
the swing Grandpa made splintered with it
and cold came and took Johnny
from that time which warmed us
----into the now----

digits form my tattered lace
I try to travel back, on the freeway
open highway, once narrow street
where we lived slowly to human heartbeats
now still, dead; buried with the hourglass
the front porch swing
and our little Johnny