Faye Sizemore


A ways out on the old highway…
past where the Little Leaguers play
On the outskirts of town… that’s where you turn down
an old rutted farm lane… overgrown with weeds
… and no trespassing signs nailed to the trees
There’s the old Smith farm with fences broken down
… no cows anymore… to keep from harm
Only the posts still sound… pasture’s gone to seed

Ford truck grown up in weeds… looking down on its luck
In its year had been a good old truck…
Once it got every care… no neglect when it’s owners were here
Looming large and lonely… the old house standing there at the top of the hill
Broken chimney still rising to the sky… broken window like a black eye
Some birds nesting in the mailbox… doors with broken locks
The barns and out buildings out back… missing boards… here and there
Didn’t used to be like that before the Smith boys went to war

All but the youngest… Tom… and he doesn’t stay here anymore
The old flag pole is still there… Pop Smith used to raise the flag
in the morning dew and lower it in evening time
As his father used to do… a habit to which he always kept true
Ms. Smith planted posies near the base, petunias… red… white… and blue
A few scraggle there still… don’t get care anymore
Died of a broken heart Ol’ Ms Smith… she did…
when her boys never came home from the war

After that Ol’ Man Smith just slowly sank and Tom… he drank
Yes, now this farm is owned by the bank

(And this is how it was………
A war over across was the cause of this old farm’s loss)