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The Old Caboose

Poetry By: Angie Blake
Poetry


I visited my Father and Grandmother last April in Idaho. My mother had passed away just a week shy of her 67th birthday.
My sister and I visited the old caboose that we used to play in when we were little. It was so surprisingly run down but what was I thinking it would be after thirty years?


Submitted:Jun 25, 2012    Reads: 76    Comments: 4    Likes: 5   


I'd entered the caboose,
the door had shrunk small,
the last time I was there
I wasn't very tall.
All the childhood memories
that I remembered so well,
crashed to the floor
at the smells of old hell.
The spiders made there homes
in the falling down walls,
the rats running through
and roaming the hall.
I glanced at the stove
that never once worked,
and inside the oven
the cockroaches lurked.
I tapped on the windows
and tried the back doors,
I loosened the nails
that were holding the floors.
I picked up the pictures
that were stuck to the ground,
and hung them back on the walls,
where they were once found.
I wiped away the tear that escaped
from my eye,
How the child inside of me wanted
to cry.
The memories of the old caboose
once held so dear,
were destroyed by old age
year after year.





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