Toy Shop

The widower sat and twiddled his thumbs,

In the shop they started together,

Littered with trash and forgotten projects.

A tear rolled down his cheek onto a drum,

The drum he was making was now fodder,

Fodder for the dustmites and the crickets.

His son worked there to, but it was humdrum.

The little toy shop, no one would bother.

The walls were peeling, the paint gone, neglect.

After all this time they had become numb.

Outside their window, a single feather.

It was golden, how would it take effect?

With all hope lost, it was useless, bethers

Had already taken root in their lives.