poem

Twisted brown ghosts 

Swirl in the street

Then one direction up

Then down to the corner

Some jump around

The railings of the ramp

I sit waiting for their message

A few dance up to me

Who wonders what they think

Of a man who enters

His 71st year

They only had one summer

Each screaming their green joy

In the sun whose trip

Brought warmth to this town

Now life bent them

Into dry curved phantoms

That haunt me in a fall wind

There is no moaning

Or distant vocal tunes

They have no mouths

But speak to me of days ahead

When they will crumble

Like my old bones 

In coming years

Around whose porch will I be blown

Barry G Wick