Iowa Fields - Poem by Michael Pruchnicki
Our local chapter meets each month
in the back room of the kennel club,
the labradors and lesser breeds long gone
from the premises. Codgers sit at the bar
waiting for a live one to toss a dime.
When will Gabriel sound his trumpet?
Some few of us boast and trumpet
our deeds! Now we wait each month
for our disability check. Not a dime
in savings, no cash for a night at the club
where Mimi dances on the oaken bar,
reminding us of days long gone!
Our days have faded to years gone
in one dry season - a glorious trumpet
honeysuckle flower dying on a sand bar
in a bad year and in the hottest month -
tangled vines and growth of Club
moss obscuring our modest dime!
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