Hope is a Mantle Passed
Hope is a passed mantle, while
cursing in Italian: “ah bah fah…”
and never finishing the phrase,
because it won’t count that way,
like a cockatoo, stopping it’s song short
of completing Colonel Bogey’s March.
Hope is a passed mantle,
retold tales of days gone by,
when she ran behind the ice truck
down her street in Brooklyn,
with kids from the neighborhood,
to hustle the driver for a sliver.
Hope is a passed mantle,
dancing the youth out of her
flapper dress, declining
an invitation to join
Vaudeville, because her
dad
said
no.
Hope is a mantle passed,
between two trains,
traveling in opposite directions,
between two passengers
remaining on the caboose
as they bid farewell,
until both disappear
into the horizon.