Sasperilla's

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There is a house of many that I pass by everyday,

And sometimes I have to wonder, who could live there anyway.

The parking lot is empty, any hour I’ve gone by,

But there is a flag that proudly waves, its colors in the sky.

The mailbox at the corner of the building that I speak,

Is rusted, chipped and faded, and the hinges really squeak.

There are curtains on the windows, which will open now and then,

When someone’s expecting company, a loved one, or a friend.

 It’s very well looked after; flowers grow, with lawns of green,

You would think the house was vacant, because no one’s ever seen.

The sitting swing rocks back and forth, so easy with the wind,

A sign out front informs you, of the hours you can spend.

But the day is nearly over, shadows cast and night will fall,

The doors are locked until tomorrow, and will open at roll call.

The wheel chair at the entry, has been tucked away inside,

It’s not used much but is placed there, for someone who needs a ride.

Today’s a little different, because the flag now at half - mast,

Is telling us that some one will be going home at last.

The sign that reads “No Vacancy”, will once again be changed,

And the furniture that filled a room is being rearranged.

The swing now still and motionless, is empty as before,

And will wait until tomorrow, when the wind will blow once more.

The parking lot is busy, but the curtains keep their place,

There will be no smiling faces, as they sing Amazing Grace.

While the world is such a busy place, and time is of the essence,

There are those, who really need, to have you in their presence.

But, the mail is not delivered, by a postman anymore,

And words of love not written, down on paper as before.

A thumbtack holds a calendar, with nothing on the page,

But the occasional appointment, only marked with D and A.

It’s not much, to look forward to, a check up and a pill,

A Doctor gives them words of hope, strengthening their will.

The loneliness encountered, by someone who doesn’t get,

A visit from a loved one is compounded like a debt.

From day to day they sit’n wait, and count away the hours,

There is no mail on Saturday, and no one’s sending flowers.

Someone, will be in tomorrow though, the pastor will arrive,

To thank God, for the Sundays, and the week that has gone by

The day has been a long one, and so much like any other,

There was no mail and no one seen, a father or a mother.

I guess I’m rather fortunate, to have a family tree,

That was planted by my grand dad, long before I came to be.

And years from now, when I am done, and in retirement,

I’ll spend my days, not Home Alone, but in accompaniment.

Of family, and the friendship, of the loved ones I hold dear,

The mailbox will be painted, and the hinges oiled each year.

The day has been a long one, and so much like any other,

The family has gone home now, “What ya thinking about, Mother?”

 Geo W. Donovan March 22nd, 2005