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,
a gruff man looks on as boys holler
as they play.
Denied 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, eyes the kitchen window.
The scarlet glare of another dying day
blind her eyes of glacial snow.
A rising trill begs her fickle ears to hear
a young gingham girl light years away,
once his rescued Guinevere.
Pinched pennies and lingering kisses sweeter
in their two-bed fixer upper
his muscled arms to greet her.
Their freedom short-lived with the binding band
clad Papa in boots and overalls
while dishwater got her hand.
Impatience would get the better of him.
On the front stoop she waits
alone for the evening edition.