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They don’t make lights like they used to,

Grandpa Simpson, dressed so perfectly,

Fedora flopping at the oh, so perfect angle,

Dances down the street

From pool of light to darkness,

To pool of light

And darkness,

And pool of light

To darkness,

Again and again and again

Thereby…

dancing

those

stepping

stones

of

light

In time to the rhythm of his feet

And the music in his heart

Try doing that in today’s light.

They don’t make lights like they used to,

Children gathered closer and tighter as the darkness crept in.

Best of all were lights in narrow streets

Where at times old trees growth

leaned

towards

light

and

shadows,

Wind tossed limbs splintered the edges,

Like dark bulrushes around pools of light.

They played jack-jack-cross-the-water, one, two, three,

Screeching across the street from the dark side to the light.

They tied strings to letter boxes and hung around in the darkness

watching front doors opened to frustrated emptiness while they giggled at their prey,

stage lit in pools of light

Try doing that in today’s light.

Highly commended in the Black Diamond Poetry Competition, 2010