The End of a Roadie by Bob Bradshaw SignUp
Boloji.com
Boloji
Home Kabir Poetry Blogs BoloKids Writers Contribute Search Contact Site Map Advertise RSS Login Register
Boloji
New | A | B | C | D | E | F | G | H | I | J | K | L | M | N | O | P | Q | R | S | T | U | V | W | X | Y | Z | Ed's Choice | Articles | Knowledge Zone | Themes | Submit
Channels

In Focus

Analysis
Cartoons
Education
Environment
Going Inner
Opinion
Photo Essays

Columns

A Bystander's Diary
Business
My Word
PlainSpeak
Random Thoughts

Our Heritage

Architecture
Astrology
Ayurveda
Buddhism
Cinema
Culture
Dances
Festivals
Hinduism
History
People
Places
Sikhism
Spirituality
Vastu
Vithika

Society & Lifestyle

Family Matters
Health
Parenting
Perspective
Recipes
Society
Teens
Women

Creative Writings

Book Reviews
Ghalib's Corner
Humor
Individuality
Literary Shelf
Love Letters
Memoirs
Musings
Quotes
Ramblings
Stories
Travelogues
Workshop

Computing

CC++
Computing Articles
Flash
Internet Security
Java
Linux
Networking
Theme: Abstract Share This Page
The End of a Roadie
by Bob Bradshaw
Bookmark and Share
  I come downstairs.
A hammock of spider webbing
now hangs from a corner of the ceiling.
I slip outside to the garage. The hose
overnight has become a Boy Scout's
nightmare of knots and kinks.
Dust feathers the table I wiped clean
last night. The day lily,
flagged in color yesterday,
is as common as a cattail today.
My wife
announces from the doorway
that the baby has grown a quarter
of an inch overnight!
Wow,
I say, and run a paw
across my chin, edgy with stubble.
My son is bored, and kicks
at the leggy grass.
"Nothing ever happens
around here," he bitches.
But it would take Godzilla
knocking over power lines
to grab my son's attention.
Teenagers! Wasn't it yesterday
that I had a kid in awe of trains
and milk trucks?
He would follow me, as loyal
as a caboose.
I'm a teller machine now,
handing out money on request.
Not long ago he dreamed
of playing in the majors.
Now he dreams of open
convertibles, and of playing
grunge music at high volume
across lanes of parked traffic.
Are you putting enough money
into your IRA, my wife
asks? What about your
retirement plan? Plan,
I ask? I was snagging
fly balls with basket catches
and sneaking girlie magazines
into my room and dreaming
of being a roadie
for the Rolling Stones
just days ago,
wasn't
I?


November 28 ,2004
More by :  Bob Bradshaw
Views: 565
Share This Page
Post a Comment
Bookmark and Share
Name*
Email ID  (will not be published)
Comment
Verification Code*
Can't read? Reload
Please fill 5 characters from the above captcha code for verification.

    

 








A Bystander's Diary Analysis Architecture Astrology Ayurveda Book Reviews
Buddhism Business Cartoons CC++ Cinema Computing Articles
Culture Dances Education Environment Family Matters Festivals
Flash Ghalib's Corner Going Inner Health Hinduism History
Humor Individuality Internet Security Java Linux Literary Shelf
Love Letters Memoirs Musings My Word Networking Opinion
Parenting People Perspective Photo Essays Places PlainSpeak
Quotes Ramblings Random Thoughts Recipes Sikhism Society
Spirituality Stories Teens Travelogues Vastu Vithika
Women Workshop
RSS Feed RSS Feed Home | Privacy Policy | Disclaimer | Site Map
No part of this Internet site may be reproduced without prior written permission of the copyright holder.
Developed and Programmed by ekant solutions