Sunshine, Soap and Symphonies

no rain in nostalgia,
snow kissed days sometimes,
filled with mittens and laughter
flame blackened sootiness
of chestnuts in hands,
crackled skin lined as
a New York street map

but most days were sunshine

Soap filled nostrils flinch
skin scrubbed raw throbs
before the glow of a kitchen fire
and the heady scent of cold tar
fills every nook and crevice
of the days you dreaded
and the nights you chose sleep

but most days were sunshine

When radio waves crashed
over bedroom shores,
ears gasped
at sounds never heard
and Floyd played a symphony of their own,

while days were filled with sunshine