Your old brown chair sits waiting for you Here behind me as I write, thirty years after your death.
You, the quiet bachelor with the twinkling eyes Smoking pipe and soft French voice. Always Charlieโs second, A good mechanic, but a better blacksmith.
When the police said you couldnโt drive anymore, You went home and died of sadness. Unable to leave home, you stayed.
I still remember the day The ambulance screamed southward As I played on Grandpaโs lawn.