The milkman used to come up this way,

Bringing us his creamy milk, and stories, back in the day.

A dusty train followed him, rising up into the sky,

His buggy drove low, but his spirits sang high.

In my mind, I still see his horse-drawn car,

“Within the surface of the fleeting river the wrinkled image of the city lay.” I stopped and observed this for some time deep in thought about how much I wanted a gas-powered sweater. Sadly, being a stand up comedian, I had little or no money.

The sky is bright

But the Stars are cold

Like eyes, they twinkle

Ancient and old

Looking down on the Earth far below

They watch and wait,

And what’s more, they know

They look down, older than time

Staring at me

Hearing the phantom calls of the organ,

And the soft murmur of the church choir,

Awakened from sleep with a feeling she couldn’t describe,

She got out of bed and followed it outside.

A careful mist lay over her small town, a light shield of protection.