The small house, very much alive,
Wonders if we all are bent,
On making life some sort of game
And looks on with a deep content
At bicycles and bathing suits,
Bats and roller skates,
Bobby-socks and dungarees
And diaries and dates —
First tuxedo to appraise,
Bow tie to approve,
Clothes discarded on the floor
Everywhere I move —
High school year books, trophies won,
Commencement and a formal prom,
Phone bell or a door bell’s ring,
“Is it Jack or Bill or Tom?”
Corsages using up the space
That always was reserved
For more important things – like food –
For dinner to be served.
It seems to say, “Dull moments where
Life lifts its restless wing?
Peace is found in homes where youth
Knows no journeying.”
[taken from Where Childern Live (1958) by my great-grandmother Alice B. Johnson]
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