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LEAN-TO LENNY


When I pass by,

Up Union Hill,

I know he’s inside,

Peering,

Peeking,

Silently Still,

Wondering whom am I.

I wave.

He never shows himself,

Just a shadow,

Of a guy,

But when I return.

He has left me a token,

On the post.

Somewhat of a ghost.

Lonely?

Maybe?

Alone man.

A lone house stands.

It’s our way of,

Staying in touch,

And saying,

“Hi!”

As I pass by.


Last week,

No token I spied.

The old man,

Died.


I cried.

For I had lost a friend.

In need,

In deed,

Indeed.



Author’s Note: Who was the old man?

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tenbrunsel2
tenbrunsel2
Jan 26, 2022

Neat poem. What token did he leave? Did you leave something in exchange? Jeff Philbin

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tenbrunsel2
tenbrunsel2
Jan 26, 2022
Replying to

Jeff - Thanks so much for logging in and making a comment online for other’s to enjoy. To answer your question, “What token did he leave?“ He left trinkets, trinkets like you would find in the top drawer of your highboy or in my desk here where I write. Trinkets like a shell, an old beat up coin, a button, an actual old old brass bus token, about the size of a dine, like we used in grade school to ride the bus home, a banjo pick, a red Warrior golf tee, an old weathered baseball, an old small worn out pocketknife, a piece of petrified wood it appeared to be upon closer examination, a tiny cross. Just stuff.


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