the mythical fifties

in the old days, i tell

some young whipper snapper

as he pulls up

his chair

outside the coffee shop.

the mail man came

twice a day.

we had a milk man who

brought us eggs

and bacon too. we knew these

men by name,

who they were,

their families.

there were boys that

woke up in the morning

and delivered  newspapers,

pulling their wagons

in the early morning

with their dog beside them.

there was the ice man,

with his shaved ice and

sweet syrup

that he poured into paper cones.

the good humor man.

the junk man, with his

donkey, pulling scrap

metal through the streets.

people sat out on their

porches, because it was

too hot to go inside.

everyone knew everyone.

you married some girl

in the neighborhood, you didn't

have to go online.

people were more friendly.

almost cheerful at times.

when you passed someone

on the street

you said hello, or tipped your hat.

most dogs ran free without their leashes.

when we called someone

we put a dime in the slot,

or dialed someone up on

the one phone hanging on

the kitchen wall.

if someone new

moved into the neighborhood

women would bake them a pie

and bring it over.

kids played ball in the sandlot

with no coaches,

no parents around.

they played until it got dark

and had to be called in 

by their mothers,

because dinner was ready.

people went to church.

people loved their country,

not in the crazy way they do now,

but respected the flag,

the police, soldiers,

and the elders.

people read books, told stories,

tall tales.

took pictures and put

them into albums, which

were kept on coffee tables.

it was a different world, i tell

them. you would have loved it.