WHEN THE LIGHT GOES OUT
A town like this, The one I live in,Is a part of me and all who live in it.
We notice things, patterns, habits.
We expect things to stay the same,
Peaceful yet with a pulse, That keeps it alive,
The old craftsman always walks down the sidewalk through town, Heading for his shop,
Opening at nine everyday,
All day he sits at his workbench in the front window,
Fixing this or that, watching people pass by,
Some stop to watch, He doesn't mind,
He does it all by hand, Same as when he was young,
He learned his trade and knows no other way,
Back then was a war, Still he studied and worked,
Sixteen hours a day, Sixteen years old,
Times did change, No more war, Poverty still,
It was time to leave, Find a new place to be,
He crossed the ocean, What adventure this was,
Worked his way across the land until he found,
Our little town, Made it his home,
Like in most life's, He blended in, Got married,
Worked hard everyday in his shop,
His hands were his tools, The old ways his skills,
Craftsmanship unlike today, His was meant to last,
Aged wood he could shape, Instruments he made,
What he crafted was with pride, a little bit of him too,
Within him was a love of the labor, A sense of achievement, A labor of love in all he did,
Then the day came, Cheaply made replicas,
Plastic is cold with no soul, A copycat without the skill, Mass produced for a world in a hurry,
Close to eighty years have gone by, Still he sits,
Sadness, They sometimes watch him at his window,
No one ever wanted to learn his skill, A lost art,
His life is his craft, Time tested and true,
He sits at his bench, The little light on,
He works late into the night, Fixing this and that,
For all that he is, All of his talent, His craft,
One day when the light goes out,
One day when cob-webs cover his bench,
His tools lay still, His chair empty,
Will we ever know what we had lost........
Richard E. Cartledge 11/7/09 PHOENIX (c)
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