Old Man Brady
made money. I mean–
abracadabra, ta da–he made money.
That’s what I believed when I was five.
Nickels, dimes, pennies, quarters—
he plucked them from the grass
like a bird snatching bugs,
swearing, of course,
they were there all the time
just waiting to be found
by a couple of guys like us.
Old Man Brady
walked the block ‘most every day.
It got to be when I spotted him,
I’d lock my step to his and
he’d say, “I don’t know
if we’ll be lucky today,”
but we always were, and
I always got to pocket the change.
Old Man Brady
stopped walking the block
a long time ago. And me, I still
scan the ground now and again,
kicking up memories
and wistful longings for
a flash or two of magic
and its sweet, tonic buzz.
© 2004 Dennis Ference
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