One Eleven Formerly Ashley's

Dear Readers,



Old Home week.


Prose by rose and the comets
The stars on these stares flash
The old streets of the River Market
Tracks tuned to the timing of lights
Those thoughts of yesteryear
Those alleys and byways
Old leases torn apart
Flames of fire shot up over the river
Off bridges torn out
Broadway bands with bands of steel
Rebuilt spans that tune up
History that makes scents of rose
The times they changes as wheels turn
The fly over of a Falcon Jet
They said Hi there Charles
I said Hi angels
They smiled our secret coded musing
The wait staff knew me
Up the tip I said one day
She mused, how great of you
I smiled and said I play pool
This isn't a polo
It's a Tea Time fused Short Bread
Sweet she thought
I smiled again and
Kevin Pride walked by
Retired now
I was before him, retired at 41
I am slowly aged
Root stock of Ozark hills
Robinson of longer ago than most
Not a ghost walker like dad is
His steps never heard even by cats
His gait is still full of spry steps
These M M Cohn history buffs
Tad, Dan, and Don and dad
Teamed to tune the olden times
All those four retired too
As far as I know alive and well
The drink of choice on my mind
Port
Aged in those places and styles
I've never tasted yet
Bride to be zzzz she is sleeping
In another Poem for her post
1,000's of them she's read
From me to her
She hasn't seen my local spaces
The cabin the woods still we are making
The time flies when fun is to be had
One Eleven
I seek a Port of call
List with glasses I need to wear
To read it, Hunting a better pair
To pear and bond and root stock too
Happy Birthday To all of you out there too.


Charles.

Aka

The Professor.