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The Old Old Times

It seems like old times again,
yes, it seems just like the old old times.
The minstrel sits
cross-legged, arms raised
above his instrument, the tension strains.
A long long sharp whistle cuts and blows
hard then sweet as the hobos ride the wobbly trains.
It seems like old times again, yes,
it seems just like the old old times.
Their clothes are worn and thin,
and the paying passengers are inside shoveling bluebird pie
sipping dirty water coffee
and drinking bathtub gin.
They hum the Minstrel's music tender as a psalm
a familiar refrain not too far from singing sin.
Yes, it seems like old times again.
Yes, it seems just like the old old times.
One ear is barely in the conversation,
one ear is listening to the struggling of the train.
They can barely bite their meager morsels,
because it seem like old times again,
yes it it seems just like the old old times.
Pitching tents out in the ruined wilderness,
pleading brother, sister can you spare some kind words,
a job, a dollar, not just a dime.
Just when you thought the past was over,
seems it all gets recycled one more time.
The rich and poor putting distance between
one another til we can't look into each others eyes.
It seems like old times again.
Yes, it seems like the old old times.


Copyright February 6th, 2011
All Rights Reserved By the Author
Melissa A Howells Meloo of Tilt-a-World.





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The Old Old Times


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