​Serenade


The old man only knew three chords,
but he played the heck out of them
every afternoon, as sun set fire to hill.

It was a simple life he remembered,
when the mines first were active, and 
families helped local businesses flourish.

Now most houses were boarded up,
land sold or abandoned, schools closed,
and history lost for those stubborn few left.

He was hanging on for dear life, knowing 
that arrowhead collection might get tossed,
but he couldn’t worry about such things now. 

Life had become a hoarding of days and routines,
and soon he too would return to the land,
another artifact from a distant time abandoned.

For now he would sit on his porch
and sing to the birds, squirrels, and raccoons,
a steadfast audience that seemed to understand.