Monday, December 28, 2009
Fifteen years have enveloped the cove,
The neighborhood has changed it’s face
Three times, with three generations,
While I remain in my original space.
Sons of settlers, dead or in rest homes,
Estates rented to young Navy men…
The Orcas no longer visit the cove,
Traffic fumes, paintballs, the lost Zen.
The new aging residents seek respite,
Spending more time away on road trips.
I dutifully pick up their important mail;
Bills for their AARP memberships.
All ninety-two years before his death,
Bernie dreamed of moving away.
“If only I had a way out of the cove,”
Sadly, I found his bicycle today.