the baby seats, step right up…my poem

the dusty baby seats…

I’m eating breakfast

in a room

half-filled with old folks,

they need four score of candles

on the birthday cake,

they remember old, old songs,

sometimes all the words,

they’ve lost the dearest ones

they married,

they blubber and laugh

when the grandkids come,

and they slowly eat their breakfast

with old friends,

and they never see

the dusty baby seats

that fill a tidy corner

and wait for the generation

that will happily use them.

September 19, 2024

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Your comments are welcome—tell me what you’re thinking.

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