Norman Rockwell Streets

One by one their numbers swelled, 
As they entered the Country Buffet.
Old black toupees on white hair,
Tossed their privacy away.

The brotherhood of passé men,

Laughed while stacking drumstick bones…
Reminiscing about the “Better days”
Finishing with ice cream cones.

The strange men were a mystery

Diners stared; speaking in a hush;

They didn’t see the 80’s car doors,

With magnet signs saying, “Fuller Brush”.

Those black toupees mapped suburbs,

While traveling door to door,
A free brush was their handshake,
And those old cars were their store.