The Four Chairs
at a tilt, in a row, on a porch,
Of an old
country store, in a town,
many years they've sat there untouched,
shrine for the four who'd moved on.
at that store, I recall, as a kid,
And I remember
the four men sitting there,
give me a grin, each time we went in,
old, with their beards and white hair.
possession is nine-tenths of the law,
so, those four men owned those seats,
else sat in them that I ever saw,
only time the men left was to eat.
If a stranger
in town accidentally sat down,
took was one look from the four,
would rise and sheepishly frown,
bet, under his breath he swore.
words the four would discuss,
events of the day,
were dotted by huh's, nope's, and yup's,
man, in his turn, had his say.
report was garnered each morn,
heads turned up to the sky,
someone stop by and ask, "Will it storm?"
moved as one, in reply.
in those chairs day in and day out,
could cause them to move,
the main reason, without any doubt,
times that the men did get to their feet,
only a few, that is true,
a holiday parade came down the street,
knew what those four men would do.
watched with a bored, feigned delight,
clowns strutted by,
baton-twirling girls danced into sight,
escaped from each eye.
drums were heard from up the block,
and other horns played,
muscles in those old bodies grew taut,
four men made ready to wave.
Red, White, and Blue swept proudly by,
in young, capable hands,
salutes went up from each side,
As if in
response to command.
had moved on, and the parade was done,
men tilted back in their seats,
with each other, again nodding as one,
could that parade have been beat.
men now are gone, though their chairs remain
At a tilt,
in a row, on that porch,
my mind's eye, I see them again,
to Old Glory's approach.
It's a childhood
memory that won't go away,
at each parade I attend,
gleam with polish on each holiday,
As a tribute
to four loyal old men.
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