Grandpa speaks of long ago, when he was just a lad.

Of jumping trains and dirty faces,

50 cents for bread.

He speaks of breadlines,

Foreclosed homes,

Of stolen attic safes.

He speaks of blue-slips,

Moving out,

Of shoddy, shoes that chafed.

He speaks of soup kitchens at supper,

The hidden hobo camps.

Of scrubbing, sweeping, hoeing, planting,

Washing tired hands.

He speaks of walking miles to town,

Asking to do work.

Fixing faucets,

Mailing letters,

Rich men that would smirk.

He speaks of desperation.

Sweaty, sore, and stiff.

Thinking, breathing, working hard,

No one giving lift.

He speaks of walking home at night,

Invisible against black sky.

Cutting cross the moonlit clearing,

Slouching tents nearby.

He speaks of all the shouts and fires,

Kids playing in the creek.

Men smoking, whistling, stealing food,

Women keeping neat.

Grandpa speaks of babies crying ,

Cold, shivering, wind-burnt.

He speaks of reading headlines, sighing,,

Waiting to find work.

But grandpa watches oh so closely,

For he has a pensive mind.

Writing down all he sees,

To be engraved in my young mind.