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Did you miss me,
when you lost me,
in misty pockets,
called, Our Time?

I fumbled ’round,
in them, costly.

With child’s hands;

empty.

Like, the Frost, unhugged.

After never reading,
the “Love from Dad”,
in birthday cards,
you didn’t send me.

A blank, illegitimate page.
I wished, Our Time, to bless my age. 

With the Father, from the concept,
I saw, jealous-eyed, at school gates.

But, alas, your selfish ways,
took you; captive, to your grave.

Unknowing of the upset,
catalytic, to my purloined haze.

You stole from me a future,
where the superheroes, good,
take from the Miserly & Moocher.

Their green gave out by Robin Hood.

So, now, misty pockets by the Trent,
and nobbled Oaks in Sherwood,
hold me close in My Time spent;
taking steps; We never took.

© poormansdreams

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