by John Krajci
The little house
of red brick on Maple
two blocks off Front
from the hands
of my great uncles
for their sister, Marie.
Spent summers there
with Cousin Georgie,
three years behind
and faithful Teddy,
white-haired mutt
with a bloodhound’s nose.
The little house
of red brick on Maple
two blocks off Front
where at the mile-further-on
you catch the bus to town
for a nickel instead of a dime
and the money saved buys
a soda pop or a Dixie cup
with a movie star inside.
Beside the little house
of red brick
the green field
Empty except
for Farmer Stevens’
tethered bull
who dropped buffalo chips
worth ten Indian Head pennies
from Grandma’s stash
for every red wagonload
fed to the garden
beyond the coop of chickens
providers of breakfast
Sunday dinner
and wake-up calls.
Weekend afternoons
at the little house
of red brick
the sleepy buzz
of fragile wings
from Roosevelt Field
tasting the tepid blue
and whispering
what’s-to-come.
The little house
of red brick on Maple,
two blocks off Front
lost now among
clapboard look-alikes
inhabited by strangers.