It wasn’t called White Sands
even by those who lived there
on dirt streets that dead ended
north side of the creek.
Houses where the eldest son
never had his own room
only a Castro Convertible
to dream his dreams.
Billy and me, BFF
walked the beach
the last night of ‘59
knowing we would leave.
We were seventeen, young and strong
and we would get cars and meet girls
and tomorrow would be the sixties
and John Kennedy was gonna be President
and he was gonna change the whole world.
I left White Sands but Billy BFF never did
and when I went to say goodbye
to the streets we ran when we were young
the white sand was gone as was my youth.
Funny how they called it White Sands
after the earth was covered
along with the dreams;
I guess for sentimental reasons.
Psycho – manythanks for reading, commenting and dropping by. Regards.
Marvelous poem… Powerful and deep poetic imaginary…. Great ending verses!… Congratulations, happy friday and weekend ahead to you, Aquileana 😀
Aquileana – Many thanks. It means a lot coming from you! YOU can write – I am just an old guy who dabbles….regards.
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Best wishes and don;t be too humble!. Aquileana 😀