Reflections

By Gail Brant

“Things ain’t like they us’ta be,” he said,
As he rocked on the porch of the old homestead.
He talked to himself, as old folks do
When there’s no one around to question their view.

“No, things ain’t like they us’ta be,
When I was a boy, back in twenty-three.
The barn needs paintin’, and the screen door’s sprung.
Cain’t fix things the way I us’ta when I was young.

“Cain’t walk so good. Got this bad knee
From chasin’ the Japs back in forty-three.
But can still git around from the porch to the barn.
Takes a little longer, but what’s the harm?

“Gets kinda lonesome, now that Sairy’s gone.
And the days get long from sun to sun.
But the birds still sing, and the grass grows green.
And, Lord A’mighty, the things I’ve seen!

“Planes bigger ’n boxcars that fly in the sky;
Meals that cook in th’ wink of an eye;
Talking pitchers and food to go;
Computers and TV and video!”

The smoke from his pipe rose soft in the air
As he mused on the past and rocked in his chair.
The sun sank low in the evening sky
And a tear gathered slowly in his faded blue eye.

“Us’ta, folks’d stop by and set a spell.
Jist to talk of the weather or wish you well.
Now the ones that I knew are mostly all gone,
Or they’ve moved down south, to set in the sun.

“The young ones — too busy, life’s movin’ too fast —
Got to get on the train a’fore it goes past!”
Then he puffed on his pipe as he watched the sun set
Remembering the days he could never forget.

He wiped off the tear, stroked his stubbled chin,
Stroked the dog’s head, and said, with a grin,
“Got nuthin’ to do, ain’t goin’ nowhere.
Just waitin’ to die in this ole rockin’ chair.”