Campfire poem # 54

The embers of the campfire glow, fade
with the vagaries of the waning lake breeze
brilliant orange, gray, orange, silver, orange

reminding me of 1969; flashing, broken neon
small, single level roadside motels
on old black-and-white signed U.S. highways

frequented by people like those in my parents
blue Plymouth Fury; mom and dad up front,
my grandfather and I in the cavernous back seat;
Mount Rushmore, Yellowstone Park, Colorado.

Roadside neon ‘VACANCY’ signs beckoned;
scratchy carpet, the aroma of Pine Sol, two beds –
on lucky nights, the amusement-park caliber
Magic Fingers variety – thrill ride for a dime

The embers are fading… lighter orange, silver,
gray. Bright orange, a last time. luminous silver,
gray to wispily smoldering black.

Sign fire flickers out; memories burn brightly

Gated communities

Never have I been further
from my youth
then when I returned to
the scene of it

places, people, things change
time, people, lives elapse

Going home is a
metaphor smorgasbord;
abandoned cabin overgrown
with woods, withered by age

dirt roads now paved
familiar sights still sturdy
though showing some age
roadside greasy spoons now
trendily featuring salads

locals speak of ‘amenities’

Places grow up, people change
or vice versa; who can tell?

Sedentary in its change
the place you knew as home
always will be, though you
can’t live there anymore.