The End of a Roadie by Bob Bradshaw SignUp
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Theme: Abstract Share This Page
The End of a Roadie
by Bob Bradshaw
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  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
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Solitude and other poems by Rajender Krishan
 


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