Submitted by Ben Gerome
From Papa’s old armchair, from his weather-worn porch,
Time passes softly, gentle as all.
I could blink through the sunlight, but days may pass by.
I could nap in the moonlight, by months may slip past.
A reverie a decade; a dream something longer.
Tobacco and a breeze as bitter as his coffee.
A hearty laugh and skin as golden as his wheat.
Somewhere in it all, he’s still here.
Denim and callouses.
Somewhere in it all, it isn’t lost on me.
Photo credit: Edward Hopper – Clamdigger