MR. HUGHES
When I was a boy, four or five,
Mr. and Mrs. Hughes lived next door.
Their house was half the size of ours,
Ours barely big enough for four.
Mr. Hughes would sit on his stoop most of the day
Wearing a tie
Watching cars and people go by.
When my friends weren’t around to play tag or catch,
I’d sit next to him.
He was the oldest person I’d ever seen.
He was kind.
He told me what the town was like
When elm trees lined the street
Like thick flowing drapes of green,
And horses would even be seen
Clip-clopping from time to time.
Mrs. Hughes talked to me sometimes, too.
She never came outside.
She spoke in a shadow behind the screen door.
One day my parents told me he died.
For a while I thought about Mrs. Hughes
Alone, inside.
We moved away.
Sixty years went by.
Never once did I think
About Mr. Hughes.
Until one day I found myself
On my own door stoop
And I remembered Mr. Hughes.
For a long time I remembered.
Speaking with patience
I learned from Mr. Hughes.
Listening with patience
I learned from Mr. Hughes.
Love of tradition
Started with Mr. Hughes.
Love of neighbor
Started with Mr. Hughes.
As I sat on the stoop
Remembering distant conversations
And current situations,
A baseball rolled to my feet,
And one of the neighbor boys next door
Trotted over to fetch it.
