He was old when I was young.
Now I’m old, and he’s long gone.

Owner of a small-town store.
Plier of all those knick knacks
and delicious snacks that
a young boy desires and adores,
tiny fifty cent to a dollar toys,
a handful of penny tootsie rolls
and five cent laffy taffy,
with silly jokes on the wrapper
that brought a little lighthearted laughter.

Small brick building
and in the back was
his home.

Now the burnt red bricks
have lightened and cracked a bit,
like the memories of him,
fuzzing up while slowly fading,

till he is the foggiest of impressions.

I try to recapture any ****** expressions
but only recall vagaries.

The building falls behind the sun,
but his family has not yet moved on.

Soon the night will descend
consuming me as it has devoured
my memories of him.