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Soap Box Poets

© by Christopher Mills

My father and his brown trousered country

is retired

Pinned his dreams in long succession

to a plastic line

where there is foliage, trees

and a stickleback stream

When the sun sets on this house

of boxed childhoods unsprung

there will be tall shadows

of gold churned cream

My father and his brown trousered country

is retired you see

Mumblings and potterings through passages cat patterings

while the patio cracks

the plaster leaks

and creaking legs need seats

my parents join floral stitch

of a thirty seven year old curtain

that does not match the other

They are retired, don't you see?

My father and his brown trousered country will soon be gone

A sound like a trumpet

A call to something I barely knew

I will be there I fear

to seal the lids and close the trunks

Dust the corners

and be on my way

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