Stories

The stories told.
The children sleepy,
some fastly sleeping.

The stories told
in a room warmed
by a roaring fireplace.
A room almost
overfilled, a room
that heaved, billowed
and rolled along with
the stories.

The children sleep.
The adults sit.
All reminisce.
They all have stories,
it’s the glue that holds
them together.

The children sleep.
When they wake
they will have grown,
they will find the adults
with gray hair telling
stories like they’d
happened only yesterday.
The antagonists – him and
her and Jon and Billy and
Joey, just as if it’d
happened yesterday.

When the children
wake they will have
to tuck their parents
in for the night.
Their parents will sleep.
And the children sit.
All will reminisce
of stories yesterday.
It’s the glue that
holds them together,
for a time, that is, until
gray hairs turn white.

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