The tick-tock of horse hooves
rouses me from sleep.
I crawl from the bed to peer
over the hotel balcony.
A man’s red hat bounces steadily below.
Wooden wheels click
against the dirt in this early hour
before any cars pass this way.
The gypsy’s song interrupts
the damp morning air.
As he drives his cart to market,
his voice swells with richness,
beauty from the Old World
passed down through the years,
now nestled near his heart,
the story of his fathers.
It arrives along the same path every day
down through the mountain pass,
carried by wind and want
over the ancient stone.
Scrambled Eggs and Ben Franklin
I remember Saturday mornings
at Grandma’s house.
I can almost still see her,
looking outside of her kitchen window with its
blue and white plaid curtains and saying,
“Yes, siree, looks like it’s going to be
a sunny side up kind of day!”
The air would smell like cinnamon strudel
and everything good in the world.
Grandma’s spoiled tabby cat, Ben Franklin,
would wind around my legs as I sat
at the kitchen table,
meowing impatiently until I snuck him
some of my scrambled eggs.
Grandma said she named him Ben Franklin
because he had more common sense
than most folks she knew.
In my eight-year old way,
I thought life would always be that simple.
But now I’m grown.
Ben Franklin’s gone.
Grandma’s in a nursing home
where some stranger fixes her eggs in the morning.
She doesn’t remember us anymore,
but every now and then, I see her moving her
hands across her lap in a stroking motion.
I always wonder if where she is,
she’s dreaming about scrambled eggs and Ben Franklin.
Amy L. George is the author of three chapbooks, the most recent one being The Stopping Places (Finishing Line Press). She holds a doctorate in Literature and Criticism and teaches at a private university in Texas.