Iowa Evenings - Poem by Michael Pruchnicki

The local chapter meets each month
in the back room of the kennel club,
labradors and lesser breeds long gone
from the premises. Codgers sit at the bar
waiting for a live one to spend a dime
or for Gabriel to sound his trumpet!

Some few boast and trumpet
past deeds - now they wait each month
for a disability check-not a dime
in savings, not a penny for a night at the club
where Mimi dances on the bar,
reminding them of days long gone!

Mornings have faded to years gone
in a single season - a trumpet
honeysuckle dying on a sand bar
in a dry year and in a stifling month-
tangled vines and growth of club
moss obscuring the modest dime!