That Old Mill

is alive in the light of day

harsh wind grabbing
your windpipe, breath of winter-chill

icicle eyes staring dimly
at the scene, leftover pussy
willows as
stiff fingers beside river’s bank.

Within view an ancient mill
memories
dulled
by the passage of time.

Images of life return as a photo
album, deer
within shadows
cows flicking horse flies

kids painting the barn and
three dogs chasing.

Childhood is splashing in the
creek, pages from life
a long time ago.

Cleaner, County Building

 He comes each afternoon
mop in hand and a warm
bucket of water, nicely lathered
uses the old ways to keep
our floors spotless, gives them
a tired wash, his face appears
so drained of emotion,
same old job
same old floors
same old hi and lately
only grunting as we walk by
as if the effort to acknowledge
our passing grows less important.

 

Train to Sudbury

Saw him Friday
spoke for an hour
about problems and alcoholics
talked about life, its struggles

gave him
twenty-five bucks and wished him
the best –
thanked me, said I was a pal

hours later the radio report,
unidentified man discovered dead
of natural causes, on a train
on a train to Sudbury.