This was the early 2010s, I was nineteen or so.

Maybe sixteen. Who can say, a decade later?

I was still in high school or just out of high school,

and sorting diligently the books of the Carnegie library

I volunteered at for four years of thin meditations.

The bricks were as sturdy as anything I knew, then.

Finishing with the carts assigned to me that afternoon,

I climbed the magnificent staircase to the second floor,

my palm kissing the Edwardian oak of the balustrade,

the sun outside caressing the tall windows, the width

of the barrel-vault. Beyond the sloping, lopsided balcony,

in one of the side chambers: a gathering in situ,

eleven old men and women enjoying punch and cookies

while another elderly played guitar for them all.

They welcomed me into their midst out of politeness,

and I ignored the refreshments in return of the favor.

His beard was long and unkempt, his hat was a Stetson.

His seasoned fingers drew out the opening notes of

“Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree” from the

convivial air—I knew the song from a Dixieland Jazz cover

I’d bought off the iTunes store, on a whim, two weeks

beforehand. I danced a wide circle around all the guests,

humming and jiving to the breeze of his Nylon.

“You’re too young to know this song!” one woman

admonished with a peal of laughter. “I like old music!”

I returned, grinning and buoyant. I stayed for the song,

and another beyond it, then begged my farewells,

and ambled back home to my life of something-or-other.

Huddling in my room, away from my stone siblings.

My mother serving chicken breasts boiled and unsalted.

Is this story impressive? If not, please feign so for me.

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Sean Eaton is a self-taught poet from New England, USA. His favorite poet is Ruth Stone. Past publications include About Place Journal, Stone Poetry Quarterly, and Hawaii Pacific Review.