Dreams Of Home

i guess i always wanted to be,
the gristled old man whose life
is folded up in the pocket
of his coveralls...
who sits with the small boy,
teaching him to whittle,
unfolding stories like chewing gum.
who fixes the kite,
finds the lost dog...
and builds the fire
on a winter's night....
who, staring at the first flakes of snow,
smiles, and dreams of home!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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