Who will be found in the light of a fading day?
His green thumb and fingers soiled brown,
Papa in his overalls shadows the porch
with his painted frown.
Shaded by the awning of ending day,
Papa looks on while the boys holler
as they play.
Denying the warmth of a setting sun,
his vigil for the evening news
has patiently begun.
But he is not the only one.
Mama washes dishes by the kitchen window.
The scarlet glare of a dying day
blind her eyes once aglow.
A rising trill begs fickle ears to hear
a young girl light years away,
once his Guinevere.
Love on pennies would always taste sweeter
in a two-bed fixer upper with his arms
to greet her.
Freedom was short-lived with the binding band
that put Papa in his overalls while dishwater
got her hand.
Impatience finally gets the better of him.
She alone waits on the front stoop waiting on
the evening edition.
The last ray is fading on the horizon.
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