My lost Home
A two-door red pick up
Grinding to shift gears
Popping of grease on the cast iron skillet
As he burns salted ham
Aftershave and a small comb
Tucked into his flannel pocket
The pond where he taught me to fish
Reflecting in the humid air
Morning mist on my arms
Waking up before the sun to visit the farm
Playing in the creek at the bottom of the hill
Returning with handfuls of Fool’s Gold