Cutting grass was done with. Morning dew was heavy. Colors shined. Piles of leaves had not yet accumulated. Rooftops were wet. Sunshine poured down.
He sat on the front porch watching trains go by and listening to cars driving fast down the dirt road behind his house. It was private property, but, all the kids in town raced up and down it; daring the old man to take a shot at em. There were times when he did. Until they started firing back. Then he decided to give up the fight. Let em have it. It was their’s.
Now he just sat in an old wicker chair. Wandering where everybody was going? The trains ran east and west. So many of em. All with graffiti sprayed on em; folks marking their territory. He imagined there were hobos inside those cars. Going out to California, or, New Mexico. Maybe stop in Joplin for a week or two. He wandered.
These days were easy. Not like the old. Moving from town to town. Giving up on autumnal colors. Sleeping under bridges and in parks. Waking at sunlight.
No, these days were better. These days were better.