of my small basement
at an old desk
a phone connected to nothing
I keep it there
as a memory;
memories of innocent
quiet conversations
long ago
late at night
with lasses
while rain was tapping
at the small
basement windows
like my youth ticking away
the miscellaneous sawdust
tools scattered about
assorted drill bits
a broken radio
an oil drum
from another era
my old world of
comfortable friends