Paul F. Cummins
The skies were pretty much blue those years,
Quiet streets lined with burnished maple trees,
The horizon lay where it was supposed to be
Ever so far away wherein vision disappears;
Neighborhoods welcomed carts with ice cream chimes
And fireflies designed galaxies spread above the ground
As random owls floated inquiries over cricket rounds,
And we listened spellbound while summoned to bedtime.
Lights out I listened under the covers to Jack Benny,
To the Shadow who knew evils that lurked in men,
The Lone Ranger and Tonto triumphing again and again,
To the reassuring deference of Rochester, Amos and Andy.
All was quite well ordered, quite a set of certainties—
It seemed that all was as it was ordained to be.
—from Rattle #29, Summer 2008