The November Curvy Ramble

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 The Curvey November Ramble


Written by

David Steven Simon 

The curvy November ramble
With its fallen infantry of leaves
Lit by the epitaph of the sun
Does not lead me forward.

Every step,
Orchestrated by
the final gasp of
A snapping twig,
Escorts me back...

To my mom,
Waltzing with her 
carpet sweeper partner
As Sinatra
Sang You Make Me Feel So Young
From the cathedral radio of her 
Bobby Soxer heart
While sadness 
coursed through her veins
Like a prairie wildfire.

To my dad,
Slapped silly by Skin Bracer
And the slow death hours of a
Salesman
Sneaking Chuckles
Behind the citadel of an 
Early evening newspaper
As he sank into the mother arms of his chair
As the cushion 
Cradled his head 
Which returned him
To the sanctuary of quiet shadows
when his heart felt precious 
Befriended 
And adored.

The visitations that come to me
As I wade through
this dignified 
ghost filled battlefield 
Of old New York
With its 
Painter's pallette of
Five point Sweetgum
Maple lobes
And Sycamore crumbles
which were once
so green 
And hopeful
And cherished by the wind
Carry a tote bag of secrets
I can resurrect at will
When I feel
The longing
Of my mom
Or when I wish
Like my dad
That I could be that boy again

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