I sit and look
and write this book
on my stoop.

My book of faces
of hearts and places
which memory traces
on my stoop.

Moving like breezes
they drift thru creases
on my stoop.

At once their mood eases
and their soul it pleases
to be on my stoop.

Nods of the head
soon lies ahead
with lazy days
and big fat j’s
all’s O.K.
on my stoop.

When I step inside
to move the tide
I see them slide
on my stoop.

This place changes,
its colors ranges
to all the different faces
on my stoop.

Some are new ones
others are old,
all the stories to be told
on my stoop.

Its seen them come
and seen them go
who comes next?
you’ll never know,
on my stoop.

The ups and downs,
grins and frowns,
a thorny crown up
on my stoop.

Time stands still,
Time gets killed,
Time gets filled
on my stoop.