Poetry: A Rusty Chair


A rusty chair waits for me

 Near an ocean,

With no cell phone service,

Only deep thinking

Like that runaway Mack truck

Plowing through a spent cornfield

Just east of my childhood.

I didn’t scream back then,

I was young with time

To right the ship.

But now that I’m old,

I am content to sit in that rusty chair

And laugh at all I did not do.

Published by 67steffen

My labels: grandfather, father, veteran, writer, poet, photographer and dreamer in pursuit of the meaning of life. Getting close, although I'm running out of time--probably why I'm so close.

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