July 16, 2007
Entrapped by nails, the rusted relics, gun and sword, are buried upon the wall scribing an “x” in inanimate rest. They remain from that great era, that golden age, when boys obeyed, when girls were sweet and spoke like ladies, when everyone knew his place and especially her place. Certain old men eye them as if they believe that time was theirs even if it occurred centuries before their births. Their pale eyes look empty as they examine the blade, the barrel, the handle, the trigger. And their freshly bathed granddaughters squeal with delight in July’s twilight at playful fireflies.