Main Street Treasure Chest

Excited days,
The old days,
Cavernous slabs of cement fly
Under my feet,
Large trucks growling
Within an arm’s reach.
The shade of maples welcome
Here and there,
As I rushed from bright blistering pools
Of summer sun.

Rubber sneaker soles skidding,
A sweat slickened arm resting
On the curbside mailbox,
The corner
Of Pearl and Main is where Carnegie had left
his legacy.

A throat filled with cobwebs,
And a spear in my right side,
My eyes rose to meet
It’s solemn stare.

Beyond the scarred but solid
Doors lie
The stairs that ascend
To another land.

A land of shadows, and the smell of rubber cement.

A land of hisses of silence
From a white haired lady wearing a purple shawl.

A land of sinister sentries
Of oak, keepers of dreams,
Standing to the ceiling,
Their arms holding the rainbow
Colored spines of creatures contained
In dusty covers.

A land where Thomas Paine
And Twain conspire
Around a back corner.

A land where King’s Pennywise
And Thoreau’s Walden wait
For my dirty fingers to pull
Their thoughts to my eyes.

A land where a ninety seven pound
Nobody slips into new skin,
Becoming King Tut,
Painting a fence for Sawyer,
Shooting to the outer limits of Space,
And smelling the smoke of the Napoleons at Gettysburg.

Hidden in the echoes,
Lay my promise,
My hope.
My dreams.

With those thoughts,
I place my right foot forward
Onto the chipped concrete step,
My hand resting on the wrought iron rail,
And my journey begins.

Calling all Libraries, Indy Bookstores, and Places of Education

On June 17, 2010 I will be performing a live reading at the Butler Public Library in Butler, Indiana. I would like to invite all members or associates of libraries, Independent Bookstores, and Schools/Universities to consider scheduling me for a reading.

I need the exposure, and need the audiences. I want my readings to hold educational value and purpose (such as supporting a library or Independent Bookstore).

So if you have an event or opening for a reading and would like to speak with me about it, please e-mail me at scottsprunger@hotmail.com.

I look forward to hearing from you all.

Thank you.

Yesterday's Never Gone

It was past the time when the hour hand’s
Revolutions were painted with tears.
It was past the moment when a single red rose,
Resting on oak, lowered itself to be covered
In Indiana clay.
It was closer to the days,
Those days,
When I sat among scattered papers,
Cigarette butts, and torn photographs.

I could feel loneliness the way I could smell
Spring coming to Madison.
The mist from Big Clifty clinging to a moss
Eaten maple.
Laughter bellowing from the sandstone that
Framed the sleeping brook.
March air kissing red cheeks,
Hearts skipping beats, in love with life.

I stared out the west window for years.
There was the hill we once sat on in the
Shade of an oak.
A blue, wool blanket pressing the crabgrass
Flat while we talked, chuckled, remembered.
Ants formed a conga line to my ham and
Cheese sandwich,
The way tears licked their way to the
Corners of her smile when I bit into it.

The path that runs through the chicken yard,
The path that crosses the Kissing Bridge,
That path that creeps past the rotted Model A
Ford that hobos sometimes sleep in.
The path when I bring her flowers,
The path that leads to the chipped, rusty back
Gate and a sign that reads
Rosewood Cemetery.

It was long after we said “I do” in a white
Washed church with no steeple
To a preacher wearing a black tie.
It was past the time when I sat among the
Cattails holding a lace handkerchief bearing
“J.S.” in one corner,
While slowly turning my gold wedding band
Between scarred fingers.

It was when I fell between the snow peas and
The sweet corn,
My overalls stained in black earth,
Wind burning the lower lids of my eyes,
That I saw her standing near the porch,
Where she’d always been,
Wearing a cotton dress,
Hanging my shirts on the line.