I remember when we were children

of the Chesapeake Bay and too young to realize 

we were naive and poor.


I was two, and you were seventeen.

You handled the knife and sliced the apples.


We sat on the stoop of the shack

provided by navy housing,

and enjoyed the apple.


Your sailor was at sea.

The sun was warm and affordable.

The apple pieces were sweet.


A monster of progress, with its scary, pile-driver voice,

audible nine to five frightened me, but you were older

and braver than I, and you were able to keep it away,

all by yourself,

with love and laughter.




















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allets's picture

'nuff said

The art of knives - a skill acquired over time in actuality and metaphoriclly and artistically. Memories, yes! ~Lady A~



allets's picture

Poor & Crazy

Just reread the poem, the line about not know you were poor and crazy struck something - a memory, thoughts of relatives and neighborhood starstrucks - ahhh, I emote - ~allets~