By Margaret DiBenedetto
The old Roberts farm was up Mead Road, past our house, on the right. When I was eight and thereabouts, I would walk the dirt road along the little stream to the big red barn to play with the cats. But really, to see the work horses. Allen spoke a British brogue and milked his cows by hand. Cat waited. If Allen had some extra time, he’d put me up on Tommy’s back. Sometimes Blanche invited me to lunch.
Grey ghosts today, as I pass by.
Blanche bakes her pies while
Allen’s horses plow the fields.
Dinnertime at noon.
Old barn sags in late day sun.
“Over, Bossie, let me in.
Cat, come have a drink.”