Volume > Issue > The Hidden Years

The Hidden Years

A POEM

By Pat Marchulones | September 1984

A workman asked at a village door,

“Have you a bed, a chair,

A fallen shelf, a broken drawer,

A table to repair?”

 

The mistress looked from the dusty room

But went her dusty way:

She could not rest from brush and broom

To hear the lad today.

 

The busy daughter looked and sighed

And fretted as she spun,

“Another peddler?” “Yes,” replied

The mother, “Joseph’s son.”

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