I visit you like an old friend
well acquainted with your customary way
of telling a story fit for any occasion.
We sit like stones on the back porch
as the last gleams of sunlight die away
behind the rounded hills of my youth,
and I wait for one more campfire tale
to trip my mind down dimly remembered
paths not traveled for decades now.
Poised on rickety metal chairs painted
the color of rust, your smile slowly slips
from view. And as the twilit silence slowly closes in,
realize how you never promised anything more.
