On a street called Curve
I rest on lovely land
Born when Elvis was young
Born with high hopes.
A cuddly couple came to see,
See me in my fresh pine smell
Pure white-grouted rose brick tiles
They with chest-grasping smiles and dreams.
The nursery filled, new paint would wait
My dress of green unmowed was shred.
Loss of work, he buried his head,
"Please vacate" the notice said.
And then the business lady
Led strangers through my veins
I wept for my little family,
Lost to me.
My roof raised its prickles
Don Juan in his new Mercedes,
A fledgling barrister with cans of color,
New hope coursed in me.
Soon his interest waned,
As a bachelorís life would do,
Dishes piled, floors reviled,
Grass and shrubs just grew.
And now do I dare to care?
Burly Dad, a 50ish mom,
My lovely land is smooth,
Beds though bare of blossom.
Still, I sport some Christmas lights,
On my 50's gingerbread,
Hope again lurks surface close,
Come spring to hold up my head.
Impatiens and pansies will curve
And coil around my base,
Flotinias will adorn me,
My green dress mended, clean faced.
A showpiece Iíll be among scoffers,
Who looked away from my tears,
For the families that grew in them,
Are growing old, in their crumbling years.
© By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)